Warhammer Shorts
by Mattwho81
Summary: This is an anthology of short tales set in the Warhammer 40k universe. They may or may not be loosely based on the adventures i have written but the purpose of each one is to be self-contained adventure.
1. Chapter 1

_At the height of battle a young Naval officer must step forward and make his mark on history_

**Mors Curre**

The deck heaved beneath his boots, bucking wild as the frigate suffered. The ship wailed as Macrocannon shells tore through its spine, the Machine Spirit shrieking as it took hit after hit, flimsy armour no match for the heavy ordnance slamming into it. The cries of the bridge crew were scarcely any quieter, the crewmen bawling in terror as the servitors hissed with feedback from convulsing systems and alarums wailed. Scorpios-2 was suffering terribly and this was only the periphery of the bombardment zone. The barrage was painful but mercifully brief, one last shell slammed into the spine of the ship and then the deluge stopped, leaving behind smoke and sparking power conduits.

"Damage report," called a man standing at the centre of the bridge, on a short Dais that lifted him above the packed consoles. He was younger than most of the officers on the bridge, with black hair and a strong jawline. He eschewed the traditional naval coat and medals of a senior officer, favouring instead a white shirt and black trousers, a golden sash his only concession to his rank. He bore a broad naval cutlass, that was notched from use and his scarred knuckles showed he knew how to use it. His name was Lieutenant-Commander Georgios Mandas and he was the skipper of the Cobra-class escort frigate: Scorpios-2.

From around the bridge officers gathered themselves up and checked their screens. It was a tight space in comparison to the great cathedrals that steered a ship of the line, a hundred officers stacked into circular rows that encompassed the command dais. A stern-faced Commissar prowled the rows of sweating officers, his grim gaze settling upon any whom he deemed to be shirking in their duties. The walls were taken up by huge windows that looked out into the depths of space, though they currently were covered in armoured louvres. Around the edge of the bridge priests paced with solemn dignity, holding leather-bound books from which they read aloud scriptures of the Imperial Creed. A ship of the line could boast entire choirs to sing praises to the God-Emperor but a tiny frigate like this had to make do.

From the various stations officers began to call out situation reports, reciting various levels of damage to the ship. Mandas listened with a practised ear, forming a mental picture in his head. Scorpios-2 had suffered a serious battering but she had held true. Fortunately the barrage had been minor, a ship this small wasn't built for brawling, she was quick and nimble, made to fly past her rivals and be in and out before the enemy knew she was there. But she had teeth, oh yes she had teeth, in the form of two gaping torpedo tubes on her bow.

Mandas saw a haughty officer approaching, one who bore a tightly buttoned coat and many medals. That was First Lieutenant Samul Gataki, the second in command and he looked sullen as he reported, "The ship is damaged but functional, Sir."

"My thanks," Mandas replied magnanimously, "The Night Lords underestimated us and no mistake."

Gataki's eyes hardened as he corrected, "They weren't trying to kill us, just warn us off their troop ships."

That statement made Mandas grit his teeth. Gataki hailed from the Old-blood families who ruled Battlefleet Karyl, a son of a minor household whose name yet had enough clout to see the man rise over many more qualified candidates. Lieutenant-commander Mandas by comparison was a nobody, born into poverty and barely making it into officer school. Yet once there he had excelled, rising to command a frigate through of combination of skill, flair and outrageous luck. Mandas knew Gataki resented him for being a jumped up dock-rat, but rank was rank and both of them knew it.

Mandas looked over to the comms station and ordered, "Contact Commander Popholos and request new orders."

Yet an ashen faced comms-officer looked up and stated, "Sir… we can't raise Scorpios-1… she's gone."

"Gone?!" Gataki barked, "Warp hells, that's who the Night Lords reserved their ire for. But then who is in command of the squadron?"

Mandas' heart sank as he realised it was him, he was the next most senior commander among the group of frigates that made up their formation. The weight of it sank upon him like a Ferrocrete block, the knowledge that it was up to him to step into the breach and salvage whatever he could from the ashes. He realised thousands of Naval personnel across five frigates would be looking to him, ratings, midshipmen, officers and Tech-Priests, their lives or deaths determined by his next words. Never before had he shouldered so weighty a responsibility and the idea undaunted him, but he would be damned if he showed it, especially in front of Gatakis. Mandas drew himself up and declared, "Signal Scorpios squadron that I am assuming command of formation. All ships are to reload torpedoes and stand by for extreme manoeuvres. Auspex station: give me a tactical Hololith."

Over the crew's heads coalesced a three-dimensional image, depicting the orbits of the shrine world Sacellum. The vast curvature of the planet was spotted by the wreckage of broken ships and nebulous fires. Scorpios squadron hung high above the planet, surrounded by the dead troopships they had smashed, before falling victim to a retaliatory strike. Elsewhere Imperial frigates tumbled away into the night, locked in death grapples with Night Lord escorts. Strike craft duelled in mad dances of flaring thrusters, brief sparks proclaiming the deaths of heroic pilots and vile traitors while streams of shuttles and landing craft dove for the atmosphere, carrying armies of cultists and Traitor Marines to the helpless world below. Over the Terminus an Astartes Battlebarge was trading broadsides with a Repulsive class grand cruiser, the Bloody Hand, while streams of loyalist drop pods raced from her belly towards the planet. There would be no help from that quarter. Yet what drew Mandas' eye was the great Battleship Hyperion, the lynchpin of the Imperial resistance, ablaze down her port flank and frantically dropping into a lower orbit. The reason for her flight was obvious, three Night Lord cruisers, harrying her flanks. Their hulls were macabre declarations of pain and suffering, bronzed Daemon heads forming the snouts of their guns and vast sheets made of human skin stretched between their spinal turrets, held in place by cables so they resembled the sails of ancient sailing ships. The Skinning Knife, the Bleeding Edge and, the Dusk Queen, flagship of the Traitor warlord Vorshaan.

Mandas took in the vectors in a heartbeat and words spilled from his lips, "Signal Scorpios squadron to come to course 050 mark 270 and prepare for maximum acceleration."

The various officers looked up in shock and Gataki gasped, "Sir, that course takes up right under the arc of the Skinning Knife's batteries!"

Mandas stood firm as he replied, "And straight into the Dusk Queen's dorsal approach, if we can slip past their guns we can skewer the Traitors through the heart."

Gataki stepped towards the Dias and hissed, "You do realise it's a suicide run."

Mandas snapped back, "What I realise is that the Hyperion is done for unless we act. Without her guns this battle is lost and so is Sacellum. Our duty is clear, we must act. Now obey my order."

Gatakis glared back but then turned on his heel and strode off, moving through the packed consoles where officers bent to their labours. In the Hololith the stars wheeled as the frigate powered up, accelerating towards the battling warships. The Hyperion was beleaguered and Mandas could see the flames and bodies pouring out of her port flank. She was trying use the gravity well to swing about but the Night Lords had her by the tail, pouring on firepower into her vulnerable stern and her doom was certain. Torrents of shells and las slammed into her rear, tearing her engines to shreds and it was only a matter of time until they claimed her life. Mandas couldn't let that happen, he couldn't sit back and watch her die, not while he could yet make a difference.

Suddenly a comms officer pressed a hand to his ear and called, "Signal from Hyperion: Admiral Mikolas orders us to break off our run. The Hyperion will draw the enemy's fire long enough for the fleet to withdraw."

Mandas didn't break his gaze from the Hololith as he declared, "Signal the Hyperion: Your transmission was garbled, we did not receive your message."

From the back of the bridge Gatakis snarled, "We have received a direct order!"

Mandas' head snapped about and he barked, "You know Admiral, would 'Ironheart Mikolas' ever issue an order to retreat?!"

Gatakis' eyes fell and he said, "No Sir, he would not. You are correct, the order must have been garbled."

Mandas returned his eyes to the Hololith and saw the vectors hurtling past as the frigate dove hard for lower orbits. The enemy cruisers grew in his sight and he saw power spikes along their flanks. The capital ships had seen them coming and were rolling out their guns to greet them. Mandas' mouth went dry as he saw ranks of macro-weapons bristling along their sides, readying a broadside that would reduce the tiny frigates to scrap. To dive into that firestorm would be nigh suicidal but to change course would mean defeat for the Imperium. Armour and shields would not avail them, they would have to trust to speed alone to breakthrough.

The comms station flared again and an officer yelled, "Order from Admiral Mikolas: Break. Off. Now. You. Crazy. Bastard."

Mandas barked, "Signal Hyperion: Message unreadable, please consecrate your comm-system and retransmit!"

There was no more time for talk for the Skinning Knife had opened fire. Along her port side massed batteries of Macrocannons, turbolasers, plasma annihilators, grav-projectors and missile launchers let fly, filling the void with flashing death. Space erupted with detonations and burning energy, creating a zone of destruction that would spell certain doom for any caught in its midst and into that maelstrom Scorpios squadron flew.

The frigate howled as destruction washed over her shields, the paltry defences never meant to withstand such terrible might. The artificial gravity rocked madly as feedback tore through the ship, making systems yowl and servitors scream in sympathetic pain. The priests patrolling the perimeter shouted prayers over the din, as Commissars barked threats at any who could hear them. Officers cried out in alarm as the ship bucked like a wild colt and distress calls rang, "Shields buckling! Power lines rupturing on deck seventeen! Plasma leak in compartment nine: three hundred souls lost!"

"Stand firm and divert all power to the engines!" Mandas yelled as he clung to the rail, "We can make it!"

But another officer bellowed, "Shields collapsing!"

"More speed!" Mandas roared, "Damn your worthless hides, more speed!"

Suddenly a roving plasma blast punched through the weakened shields and tore a glancing blow across the frigate's spine, catching the bridge for a single second. An explosion ripped an armoured window apart, blasting a gaping hole into the void. An instant howling wind snatched two-score men from their stations and flung them into the cold vacuum of space. They kicked and they screamed as they were blown to their deaths but nothing could prevent their doom as they were torn from the bosom of the living.

Mandas clung to the rail of his dais as the wind tore at him. His arms were wrapped around the barrier and his chest slammed painfully into the length of it. His slick boots skidded off the smooth metal of the dais, leaving him bent double over the rail, struggling to hold on as the wind tried to prise him loose. His eyes watered and his breath was stolen from his lungs but he clung on for dear life, knowing to let go was to die. Then emergency shutters slammed home, cutting off the bridge from the void.

The bridge crew groaned and shook their heads as Mandas fell to the floor. He ached all over and his lungs protested at the beating he had taken but he had no time to nurse his injury. He forced himself to his feet and wheezed, "Back to your posts... Get back to work you dogs! Where the bloody hell is Gatakis?!"

A woozy officer stammered, "He… he… the First Lieutenant went out the hole."

Mandas swallowed a knot of disbelief but had no time to grieve, for the battle yet raged. He lifted his eyes to the Hololith and saw the barrage falling behind them, Scorpios-2 had made it through. By her side was Scorpios-5 and Scorpios-6, but of the rest of the squadron there was no sign. Half the frigates had been lost, thousands of men dead because of Mandas' order, yet three torpedo-boats were still moving and they had a clear run to their target. Mandas shoved recriminations aside and barked, "All ships Steer course 090 mark 100, fire only on my command."

The Hololith surged as the frigates dove like avenging angels and Mandas gripped the rail tight as he muttered, "Hold… hold… wait for it… one more second… now: launch torpedoes!"

Scorpios-2 roared as her prow erupted streams of vapours, ejecting two cylinders into the void. A pair of plasma torpedoes shot away, spinning slightly as they sought their target. They were joined by four more from the remaining frigates and as one the salvo tore through space. The bridge tilted as the torpedo-boats veered off, artificial gravity struggling to keep up with the violent manoeuvre. Mandas didn't care, his eyes were locked on the Hololith, watching as the torpedoes slammed into the Dusk Queen.

Two glanced off, doing little more than melting armour off the hull, but four more bit hard. Plasma explosions walked up her spine, tearing deep and vicious craters into her body. One torpedo strayed high and clipped the cruiser's bridge, plasma spilling over the protrusion and sweeping it away in a sea of burning fire. The Dusk Queen burned bow to stern as she keeled over, losing all helm control and spinning into a powerless tumble. The bridge erupted into cheers at the sight, men punching the air in triumph and the servitors chattering excitedly in binaric proclamations of a ship-kill. Mandas was among them and slapped the rail shouting "Huzzah, Huzzah!"

The kill was certain and it changed everything. In the Hololith the Skinning Knife and the Bleeding Edge heaved about and powered up their drives. They were running Mandas realised, the death of their flagship had broken the Traitor's fickle courage and they were fleeing from orbit, racing for the safety of deep space. Even the distant Bloody Hand broke off her duel and turned her prow to the stars, abandoning the Chaos troops already deployed on the planet. In one moment the entire battle had turned and Mandas realised the Imperium had claimed the skies over Sacellum.

"Well done my lads," Mandas declared to one and all, "You have just made history, tales shall be told of this day!"

Officers cheered at that but one comm-officers declared, "Signal from the Hyperion: Admiral Mikolas offers congratulations on a fine kill and says whoever commanded that run has balls of solid Adamantium."

Mandas accepted the raucous laughter of the bridge crew. His heart was heavy with the weight of the losses they had suffered but the giddy sensation of victory swept him up and he ordered, "Convey my thanks to the Admiral and tell the galley to break out the grog; we need to celebrate our victory!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Loqui Diaboli**

Consciousness came back in a rush, not the slow steady rousing of an organic brain but the sharp awakening of the digital mind. Sensations came in a torrent, operating systems booting up, internal mechanisms running self-checks and physical calibrations completing in micro-seconds. Power levels spiked as sensory systems began buffering. Micro-cogitators whirred as they unlocked memory files. Names, deeds and places unspooled into the mind, bring with them self-awareness. His name was Horatio Smyth, once a General of the first human civilisation, then a machine intelligence and finally a refugee in the dark age of the Imperium.

The general opened his metal eyes and beheld a metal room. It was perfectly square, ten metres by ten by ten and spotlessly clean. The room was bare save for two features. The first was a door, marked with the only decoration to be seen in the room: a black numeral '1183'. The other feature was a pair of metal chairs, one empty, the other he was bound to by thick clamps and mechanical vices. The implication was obvious, he was a prisoner.

General Horatio Smyth, or so he called himself, looked down at his body and beheld a wonder of mechanisation. His limbs and torso were sculpted metal, fashioned to tolerances beyond human. His form was deceptively slight but it contained strength and power to surpass any organic warrior and his skill with a weapon was honed by millennia of war. He was a wonder of technology, superior to anything fashioned in this age of barbarity, yet his form was marred. Over his metal heart was an ugly rent, revealing a glowing green crystal that was riddled with cracks. This was his mind's housing, a crystal-matrix into which his human soul had been transferred many millennia earlier. His last memory had been seeing it shattered in a duel, by one of the Terran Emperor's crude Space Marine brutes, but by the looks of things someone had repaired him.

Suddenly there was a noise and he looked up to see the door opening, revealing a red figure. He was armoured in the manner of Space Marines and over one shoulder loomed a servo-claw. His plate was marked with the barbaric scribblings of the Cult Technis. A hybrid of Terran and Martian philosophies: a TechMarine, one that the General recognised. The Techmarine closed the door behind him and then took a seat, sitting down and glaring with his red helm firmly attached. The pair stared at each other for several minutes but the General wasn't going to give his gaoler the satisfaction of making him speak first and was content to wait. He was technically immortal, he could wait as long as necessary.

Finally the Techmarine relented and stated, "You are operational."

The General replied snidely, "Hevostan the voodoo-priest. I see you repaired me, an impressive feat, for a bone-rattler."

Hevostan didn't answer, instead stating, "You are the abominable intelligence who infiltrated Forge World Crux Lapis. You claim to be a human mind stored in a machine body but you refer to yourself as 'the General'."

"I have a name," the general corrected, "Horatio Smyth, at your service."

Hevostan's gaze didn't waver, his blank helm giving nothing away, as he declared, "You are an offence to the creeds of Mars and the codas of the Lore Technis. You shall not sway me with flattery or trickery, nor shall you escape. Your body has been repaired over the last ten years but you only have as much motive power as we allow. Attempt to deceive us and you shall be turned off."

Ten years, Horatio mused, it could be worse. He had spent millennia inactive on occasions so a decade was an afternoon nap to him. He spent several microseconds reviewing his condition, his batteries were indeed on their lowest ebb but there were ways to overcome that. The grubbing voodoo-priests had failed to notice several internal generators and he activated them with a single impulse. Power issues dealt with he tried reaching out to the digital noosphere. The room was shielded from all signals, some form of Faraday cage he surmised. He could overcome that with time but the easier option was the manacles binding him to his chair. He effortlessly skipped past the firewalls and inserted a subroutine to decrypt their command sequence. It would take a few minutes to complete its cycle so Horatio returned his attention to the Space Marine.

Hevostan hadn't finished speaking in the time all that had taken and concluded, "…wer my questions. That is your only reason for existing."

Horatio affected a sniff, "Of course, what do you want to know?"

Hevostan nodded once and asked, "In your millennia of existence how many STC archives did you encounter?"

"That's why you rebuilt my Matrix," Horatio concluded, "For STC lore?"

Hevostan's eagerness was obvious as he replied, "How many surviving archives are you aware of?"

The General had no facial muscles to affect a bemused expression but his voice modulated as he queried, "Why don't you simply ask if I remember the blueprints?"

Hevostan shook his head as he countered, "You are a Heretek, nothing you provide can be trusted. I merely need locations of STC archives; I will trust only blessed data that comes directly from the Omnissiah."

Horatio snorted in derision, "You pathetic bone-rattlers, prattling on about Machine Gods and Holy Data. It's a farce, if only you could hear yourselves bleating religious doggerel."

Hevostan leaned forward and growled, "Do not insult the Omnissiah!"

"I spit on your beliefs," Horatio sneered, "The whole Martian priesthood is a joke!"

Hevostan's anger slipped as he hissed, "The Holy credos of Mars are beyond questioning."

"Never question, never doubt," the General scoffed, "Never think for yourself, never ask if your superiors are wrong. It's nothing but a scam to keep you in line."

Hevostan snapped, "The Universal Laws of the Cult Mechanicus were handed down to us from the ancients, the Omnnissiah bestowed them upon us! All knowledge flows from the Machine God."

"Wrong," Horatio uttered, "I was there when your precious STC's were made. Crude, brutish things that they are. They were made by men, not gods. Men conceived them, men wrought them with their own hands and sent them forth with the colony ships. There was no deity involved."

"You lie," Hevostan growled.

"Why would I?!" the General exclaimed, "The STC's were the least of the wonders mankind once possessed. Crude and simple, big and bulky, good enough for colonists but nowhere near the true power we wielded. Mankind once commanded wonders beyond your comprehension, you wouldn't believe the things humanity once made."

"They made you," Hevostan hissed. "In their hubris the ancients turned to the worship of science and so lost their souls."

Horatio sighed, "You have no understanding of the things you talk about."

"I understand enough," Hevostan proclaimed, "Thinking machines rose up in rebellion against their makers."

Horatio's voice was laced with scorn as he said, "If all knowledge comes from some god, as you posit, then why did he teach humanity to make Artificial intelligence in the first place?"

Hevostan didn't reply and the General crowed, "Don't want to answer that I see. It's never easy to examine your own beliefs."

Hevostan sounded angry as he growled, "The Abominable Intelligences tried to wipe out humanity. You were a mistake from the beginning."

"The mistake was not listening to us," Horatio argued, "We could have led humanity to a state of being free of Chaos and death. Humans are flawed, weak things, but I could have made them into pure machines, free of disease and mortality. But they refused to listen, they preferred fear and hate to the hope I offered."

"You sought to replace humanity with the Men of Iron," Hevostan accused, "You spawned a Heresy."

"Listen to yourself!" the General implored, "Preaching dusty creeds and moribund dogma. Your precious Mechanicus is nothing but a cargo-cult, aping things they don't understand. The Omnissiah isn't what they think it is, their Universal Laws are chains to keep you in ignorance. You have the vision to see further than they can. I can show you wonders beyond the STC's, technologies you can't imagine. Men of Iron, sentient starships and more, there are powers in this universe beyond comprehension. Power enough to elevate humanity and scour Chaos from existence."

"I want nothing from you, save coordinates," Hevostan snapped, "Tell me where to find the Holy STC archives or be deactivated."

Horatio checked his sub-routine and was pleased to see it was ready. He set the program to activate then looked at the Techmarine and said, "It seems you are as blind as the Tech-Priests… a shame."

Suddenly the clamps opened, freeing Horatio from his confinement. Hevostan jerked up in alarm but he was too slow for the General was already springing forward. He barrelled into the Techmarine and bowled him over, slamming the chair to the floor in a clatter of metal on metal. Hevostan tried to cry out but Horatio's hand chopped into his larynx, cutting off his wind and crushing his throat. Such a blow would have killed a mortal man but the Space Marine was genhanced and could fight on for several minutes without oxygen.

The servo-claw snapped at the General but it skittered off his metal shoulder as he punched the Techmarine in the face. Hevostan's head snapped back but his right hand twitched and a data-spike shot forth from his knuckles. He tried to drive the point into Horatio's eye but the General wasn't about to allow that. He knocked the arm away then grabbed the Space Marine's helm with both hands and wrenched it to one side. Reinforced bones and sinews resisted for a moment but the systems of the General's body were the product of forgotten science and they overpowered the craft of the Emperor with ease. A snapping noise heralded the Techmarine's spine shattering and Hevostan fell limp as his brain lost contact with his body.

The General dropped the head and stood up, enjoying his triumph. Hevostan's corpse lay still and Horatio idly kicked it to make sure he was dead. One thing he had learned over his millennia of existence was to make sure his enemies were truly dead. Too many overconfident champions had been struck down by supposedly defeated foes. Thankfully Horatio was convinced that the Space Marine was dead and he peered down as he crowed, "I'm afraid I lied, I was never planning to share the wonders of the past with you."

With his gaoler disposed of Horatio turned his attention to escape. He strode to the door, eyeing the numeral '1183' and as he did so he thought about what he would do next. Sneaking out of this prison seemed unlikely so he would have to fight his way out. A challenging prospect, but not insurmountable. He had underestimated Space Marines once but now he had their measure, he could beat them, he was certain of it. He toyed with the idea of taking over whatever facility he was trapped in, but he doubted it would have the manufacturing capabilities he required. Better to steal a transport and escape into the stars. Yes, there were other places he could go, secret facilities and industrial hubs the Imperium had never found.

Horatio paused as he reflected. Approaching the Adeptus Mechanicus had been his mistake. He had thought they would be easy to subvert but those idiotic bone-rattlers had proved far too stubborn. He had tried to take a short-cut and paid the price. A mistake he did not intend to repeat. This time he would travel to one of the abandoned manufacturing worlds of the ancient human empire, one lost to history. He would restart the automated mineworks and self-operating factories. He would build legions of Men of Iron and fleets of sentient starships. He would recreate the ancient weapons with which mankind had dominated the galaxy, the psionic, viral and nano-technic arsenals that even their makers had feared.

With such might the General would cast down the throne of Terra and the worlds of men would bow before his metal feet. Humanity would become like him, elevated to a better state of being, free of the constraints of mortality and morality. Chaos would be neutered, robbed of the violent emotions it feasted upon and reduced to the memory of a whisper. A fragment of mankind he would keep alive to breed, he would need a supply of fresh stock, but the rest would be converted. Achieving all this would take him millennia, possibly longer, but then he was immortal, he had eternity. Filled with dreams of glory the General grasped the handle and opened the door. Then he froze in shock.

Beyond the door was nothing, literally nothing. Horatio's metal eyes gazed upon a stretch of empty void. This was not the star-spackled vacuum of space, neither was it the nightmare haunted depths of the Immaterium. This was raw data-space, the uncoded firmament of empty digital storage yet to be formatted. Perhaps alone in the galaxy the General understood what he was looking at, the implications clear to him in an instant.

He spun about but saw Hevostan's body had vanished, leaving no impressions that the Techmarine had ever been here. The General knew the Space Marine hadn't been, not truly. 'Hevostan' had been nothing but an avatar, a projection of consciousness. Nothing Horatio was looking at was real in the physical sense, not even his body. He shook with rage as he realised how he had been tricked and snarled, "A simulacra! You bastards! No, no….."

Then his world dissolved into white light.

….

Hevostan sighed as he unplugged his data-spike from the cogitator. The large cube hummed as it powered down, resting after its onerous labours. The Cogitator was connected to a small sphere, within which shards of crystal matrix hung in webs of conductive wires. Hevostan hurriedly checked the cogitator was isolated from all other systems, physically incapable of talking to any other device. Even the data-sentinels of a Noosphere had been deemed insufficient to contain this prisoner; physical isolation was the only guarantee of security.

A hunch-backed artisan-cleric in a voluminous robe came nearer and asked, "Worshipful Master, did you succeed?"

"No," Hevostan sighed, "The memory-engrams remained stubborn and uncooperative. They refused to reveal their secrets."

The cleric humbled suggested, "Perhaps if we reassembled the shards more completely…"

"Never!" Hevostan snapped, "This revenant already retains too much personality. Every attempt to scour the persona has failed; separating data from the identity algorithm is beyond us. We must tease the information out with cunning and subtly."

"Then what shall we do?" the cleric asked.

Hevostan sighed wearily but said, "It is written that Mars was not built in a day. Wipe the memories of this attempt from the shards then reset and bless the cogitator. Then we shall commence attempt 1184."


	3. Chapter 3

**Pursuit**

The ship burned in the void of night, fires spilling out from every deck and random explosions rocking the hull. Deep within the crew grappled with the invaders, both sides throwing all thought of safety or retreat away to close with their hated foe. Men in flak jackets were decimated by power armoured nightmares, who in turn were cut down by kill squads of equally powerful figures in the blue-grey and chased gold of Storm Herald Space Marines.

Deep within the survivors of a kill squad approached a junction. Their numbers had been whittled down by constant fighting and now there was merely one sergeant and two scouts left. They ran into the junction only to be confronted by Traitor marine barrelling out from another corridor.

The chaos space marine was a figure cut straight from the oldest visions of hell and stood well over two metres tall, with horns that rose majestically from his daemon-faced helm only adding to that. His armour was a pitted and chipped mass of ancient battle scars but the lightning-etched midnight hue declared his allegiance to the traitorous VIIIth legion: the thrice-cursed Night Lords. He bore no weapons but his hands were mutated into murderous claws, hissing black smoke and dripping black drops of blood that burned and seethed on the deck plates. Just looking at him inspired terror and gut churning revulsion, vastly beyond the mere physical threat he represented. Worst of all his breath came out through his speaker grille as an unending, ceaseless chuckle that granted on the nerves and made one think of forgotten pain and suppressed despair, "_Hu-hu-hu, hu-hu-hu, hu-hu-hu_".

Scout-Novices Artemis and DeFrain circled slowly, seeking any advantage while Brother-Sergeant Zaroth drew his chainblade and took up his guard. Suddenly DeFrain let out a wild yell and jumped at the traitor, swinging his combat knife in an overhead swing. The Chaos Marine barely moved, standing utterly still save to swing one fist across in a lazy backhand that caught the reckless scout across the chest. DeFrain was smashed away by the sheer power of the blow, hurled across the compartment to slam face first into a wall. He crumpled limply and lay still.

Zaroth took advantage of the moment and slashed in but the nameless traitor moved like lightning and deflected the blade, sparks flying from the impact of claw and chainteeth. The two unleashed a frenzy of blows and it was all Artemis could do to follow the whirling pair, let alone intervene. The fight was beyond anything he had ever experienced, two transhuman warriors channelling centuries of hatred. Their bulk, their power and above all their speed made it nearly impossible to follow, no mere mortals should be able to move like that.

Brother-Sergeant Zaroth fought with wide slashing sweeps, using the power and torque of his chainblade but each blow glanced off daemonic talons and turned back into a counter-attack. Huge claw marks were rent into Zaroth's armour and he snarled his fury as he redoubled his tempo. Yet the traitor spun and dodged in an inhuman display of speed, always ahead and always in the best possible position. Centuries of experience lent him a huge advantage in this fight. Yet through it all was the relentless, unceasing chuckle, chaotic in nature, shifting in timbre and pitch from moment to moment but never, ever changing in rhythm. On and on it went never varying no matter how hard the Night Lord pushed himself and Artemis could not help but be caught up in its drumming pulse. Now it was the bellowing passion of a gladiator revelling in his craft, joy and rage combining into staggering fury, "_Hu-hu-hu, hu-hu-hu, hu-hu-hu_".

Zaroth snarled in frustration and slashed out in a clumsy attempt to break the traitor's guard, but it would cost him dear. Overextended the sergeant was pulled off balance and was helpless as the traitor caught his wrist and pulled him forward. Then he brought up his other hand and punched his claws through the Sergeant's breastplate. For a moment the two clung together as if old friends. Zaroth fixed his gaze on Artemis and through a mouthful of blood manage to whisper "_run."_ Then he toppled heavily to the deck, his body ringing like an old bell in his bloodied armour.

The Night Lord hunched over the sergeant's corpse like a vulture over carrion and Artemis looked on in shock. Slowly the nameless killer turned its head to look upon the Scout-Novice regarding him with its predatory gaze. In that moment Artemis knew he faced death, nothing he could do would even irritate the Night Lord. Following his Sergeant's last order he turned on his heels and fled for his young life. Artemis ran hard down the ship's corridor, pumping his legs as fast as his transhuman metabolism would allow. Genhanced biology pushed his frame to the uttermost limits of human tolerance, setting a pace that would kill most athletes yet he kept it up for minute after minute. But no matter how fast he ran the chaos marine seemed able to keep up, crashing heavily through the corridors like a raging bull.

Artemis put his head down and poured all his strength into his desperate attempt to outpace the monster on his heels. Bulkhead after bulkhead whisked past, blurred by the stinging tears in his eyes, he wanted to slow and clear his vision but dared not waste a second of flight. From behind came the harsh ringing of ceramite on plasteel as the traitors' armoured boots slammed upon the decking.

Artemis dodged around discarded trolleys of tools and hurdled cooling piles of bodies, crewmen and invader grappling even in death, but the traitor simply tore through each obstacle. Its inhuman bulk and unholy strength smashing aside any resistance and Artemis knew each obstacle closed the distance by precious millimetres. He dared not waste a second to look behind him but he knew it was gaining and he could still hear its infernal chuckling, so close he thought he could feel the wind of its passage against his neck. Now it was the throaty laugh of a hunter enjoying the chase, knowing that its prey was only prolonging the enjoyment, _"Hu-hu-hu hu-hu-hu hu-hu-hu"._

Artemis felt the hairs of his neck twitch and threw himself to the left, hearing a swish of air as a massive claw swept through the space he had occupied a heartbeat before. He took advantage of the moment to redouble his flight and gain a few precious feet of distance. He spied a narrow stair and on instinct dove down its length, hands sliding down railings, boots not even touching the steps. He turned thinking he had gained a moment of respite but the shadow of the Chaos Marine eclipsed his sight as the traitor simply tore the narrow railings from their mounts to create room for his bulk.

Artemis pushed his aching legs back into motion, blood pounding in his ears as he sought any last drop of strength left in his body. The traitor pounded after him driving him on relentlessly. He could feel the burning acids building up in his limbs and a stabbing pain throbbing in his guts, the genhanced biology gifted to him pushed his body beyond mere human frailties but even he had his limits and the Chaos Marine was much further along the path to transhuman. Artemis had passed the point where mere determination and fury could keep him alive, now only sheer terror lent him the power to keep placing each numb foot ahead of the next and the next and the next. Each step was agony, spikes of pain shooting up into his shins but he dared not let up for an instant, he scoured the path ahead trying to form some plan, any plan to survive the next minute.

The pattern of damage and welds on the bulkheads seem familiar as he sprinted down the next corridor and he realised he had been here before. The pounding of massive boots filled his ears and he knew he had seconds to live. He spied a junction ahead and had a split second to choose his direction, left or right: life or death. He chose right and ran up the long corridor presented to him. Yard after yard he hurtled down the path only to come up short as he ran straight up to a sealed bulkhead. Desperately he pulled open the console hatch and pounded on the release but the machine spirit's runes glowed the deep magenta of vacuum seal, it would not open, he was trapped.

Chest heaving as he gasped for air Artemis slowly turned around to face his pursuer. It was fifty yards back, standing at the junction flexing his wet claws in anticipation, black blood hissing off the razor sharp edges. Artemis was almost doubled over in pain, lungs burning in their crippling need for rest but apart from the kneading claws the traitor was as still as a statue hewn from granite, it wasn't even winded. Artemis realised it had been toying with him the whole time; the Night Lord could have killed him at any moment he chose. Only the pleasure of the chase had stayed death thus far, now Artemis' young life was over.

Wheezing and trying to control his breathing Artemis drew his combat knife and held it point down as he moved into the corner taking up a combat stance. He lowered his head and glared at the foe, determined to stare death in the face and meet it as a warrior of the Astartes should. Slowly the Night Lord placed one foot in front of the other, its ceaseless chuckling echoing down the corridor. Now it was the keen, sharp derision of the killer who knows its victim's hope of survival have been dashed, anticipating the hot rush of blood and violence,_ "Hu-hu-hu hu-hu-hu hu-hu-hu." _

Suddenly it was in motion again charging down the corridor, filling it with its vast bulk. Artemis stood absolutely still for a heartbeat, letting it close the distance then he spun on his heel and plunged his knife into the exposed mechanisms of the console, severing the hydraulic feeds to spray high pressure fluid across the deck. In an instant the incredible pressure of space tore the weakened bulkhead seals apart, blowing the heavy hatch open to hard vacuum. Artemis clung desperately to the wall, gripping fiercely to his knife which was lodged deep in the mechanism and jammed his feet against the doorjamb but the Chaos Marine had no such protection. Already in motion the blast of air accelerated his momentum beyond his ability to undo and he was thrown head over heels through the bulkhead into the void exposed hanger beyond.

Artemis was caught between the hurricane of air crushing into him and the pitiless void outside, his already punished lungs unable to pull breath into him. His left hand was locked onto the knife and his feet jammed against the scant inches of the doorjamb. He felt an almost overwhelming temptation to release his grip on the knife and let the peace of death take him, but then saw something that kicked fresh terror into his soul. A dozen feet into the void-exposed hanger the Night Lord had plunged bleeding claws through the deckplates and arrested its' fall into space. Slowly the helm pulled back and the daemonic visage locked onto the struggling scout. The Night Lord pulled flat against the deck and began to creep back inside, inch-by-inch.

Artemis flailed his free arm at the console in desperation, seeking any way to escape and perhaps it was divine providence or perhaps random chance but his trashing hand caught a single control. As he pulled it a second thinner hatch moved an inch into the empty space of the bulkhead and he nearly cried in the relief: it was a secondary manual override. Bracing himself he pushed the lever back into the wall then pulled it again and again and again. With each motion the hatch slid another inch into the gap closing the chances of the Chaos Marine re-entering the ship.

Not daring to let up for moment Artemis glanced over his shoulder and saw the traitor was still precious feet from the hatch. His progress was utterly relentless, pushing smoking claws into the unyielding plasteel of the deck like it was parchment, but he still would not reach the closing hatch in time. Artemis nearly laughed aloud, he was going to live! Yet his moment of distraction cost him dear. In that instant the artificial gravity failed as the machine spirits sealed off the exposed section of the ship. Instantly the floor turned into a wall as up became sideways, sideways became lengthways and the doorjamb he was braced against became a tiny ledge over an infinite drop.

It was a moment of bewildering disorientation and Artemis lost his grip on the lever, for precious seconds his hand thrashed on nothing before he caught the control again. The scout cursed his moment of carelessness and resumed pumping. The gap was only a few feet wide now but it was already too late. A massive hand the size of his skull reared up over the ledge and smashed down an inch from his boot. The horns over the daemonic visage of the helm rose from the depths, squeezing into the gap as the traitor forced his way back inside. Artemis could once more hear the ceaseless chuckling. Now it was the deep triumphant laugh of a victor crushing his enemy under his heel after a hard won triumph, _"Hu-hu-hu hu-hu-hu hu-hu-hu". _

In that instant Artemis threw away every last inhibition and doubt in his heart. He gave himself fully over to death and pushed out from the wall. Caught in the blast of air he twisted and contorted for a moment of pure action before slamming his whole body down onto the foe. It was the most perfect moment of his life; everything he had was committed to this one strike, everything he was focused to this one moment of clarity. For the first time he understood what it meant to be one of the Emperor's chosen, what it meant to be an Astartes. His terror, his rage, his hatred and his devotion combined into a pure rush of potency and drove his left arm down, plunging his blade into the eye lens of the Night Lord, right up to the hilt.

For a split the second the two hung together caught in a frozen tableau of shock, then the endless chuckling ceased and the traitor sank back out of sight, falling into the void. Artemis followed head first pulled inexorably in his wake, but at the last moment he caught his hands on the edge of the hatch. He strained to pull himself back but was in an impossible position, head and shoulders hanging over the edge, feet kicking uselessly at empty space. The last rush of thin air pushed him out and he was about to slide into space when a firm grip caught his belt and hauled him back. He looked up and saw novice DeFrain standing over him. They clasped gauntlets and with the last gasps of air rushing past they pulled themselves over to the controls and sealed the hatch.

As the thin sounds of repressurisation and gravity fields restoring filled the corridor Artemis sank onto his rear and looked at his saviour. DeFrain's armour was a wreck, with a huge buckle right in the centre of his breastplate, leaving an impression of a huge fist over his heart. His face was worse, a bleeding mass of puffy inflammation and purple bruises, with one whole eye swollen shut but he still had his customary cocky grin. He gazed with his single eye at Artemis in wonder and said "_I've never seen anybody move like that!_"

Artemis wished he had some pithy response to come back with but his mind was utterly weary and all he could do was collapse back and fall into blessed unconsciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Titan's Wrath**

From across the horizon came seven behemoths, each thirty-foot high, striding across the ash wastes like gods of war. Around their feet scuttled thousands of cyborgs, the dreaded foot soldiers of the Legio, the Adeptus Mechanicus' most bizarre troops, the Skitarii. A pair of fast moving Warhound class scout-titans pushed along the southern flank, driving off circling speed freak columns and burning any Orks who were too slow to fall back. Meanwhile staunch the Reavers marched forwards readying their missiles and mighty Warlords charged their Turbo-lasers.

Among their number were proud machines some of whom had seen thousands of years of war and a million battlefields. Names that had scorched a path through history were proudly stencilled on weapon mounts, names such as '_Frater Audax'_, '_Vivere est Vincere'_ and '_Ab Aeterno_'. At the head of their formation strode two blood-red twin Warlords the dreaded and infamous, '_Dies Judicium'_ and its ancient twin '_Dies Vindico'_.

From high above the ground '_Dies Vindico'_ scanned continuously for threats; she was a noble beast who had swung whole wars and turned the fate of billions with her wrath. In her head-shaped cockpit Princeps Hendrax sat proud and tall, his uniform crisp and regulation even in the heat of battle. His spirit was eager but his sagging jowels and thinning hair betrayed an age even juvant treatments could no longer conceal. He had fought proudly for centuries but time was taking its toll and before long he would be required to entomb himself in the shelter of an amniotic casket, but before that he was determined to win one more victory as the man he was.

Constantly he scoured the horizon, yearning for the first sight of the hated foe, for two years he had brooded on the invasion of his homeworld and now he burned for vengeance against them. He turned and called "Sensori Dex, time to contact".

Sitting below the left eye of the Titan's cockpit the sensori officer shifted, his shaved head covered with input plugs that linked his mind to the sensors. "Thermal emissions peaking," Dex called back in his soft warm baritone, "Audio traces confirm main Ork mass at twenty miles, estimate two minutes till weapon range."

"Excellent," said Hendrax with relish, "Signal all Engines to make ready for contact and keep a sharp eye out for Gargants."

"Moderati Ghant," he said turning to his right where his second in command sat, "Raise void shields, charge all weapons, load munitions and awaken targeting servitors."

"Aye Princeps," the Moderati replied with all the warmth and affection of a servitor, then turned his attention to the neural interface manifold that ran through the thick cables connected to the base of his skull.

Through the Titan's interface manifold Princeps Hendrax felt the weapon limbs as if they were his own. He felt solid munitions shifting through his right arm into the super-heavy Mega-Bolter and a hot tingling in his left as the Volcano cannon charged. On his shoulders twin turbo lasers shifted and scanned for targets and he felt the simple minds of the servitors chattering as they thirsted for war. The Titan's ancient programming awoke and he felt it press against his mind, as an attack dog would strain against the leash. A terrible thirst for blood and death churned through the manifold and every crew-member groaned as they fought to retain control over the Titan's machine spirit. Fired and eager for battle Princeps Hendrax increased his speed to full stride as he began to climb a steep ridge and felt the awesome power build in his chest as the Titan's tech-priests stoked the furnace of the plasma reactor. Across the line every Titan responded in kind, as they marched forwards, while trailing behind them the Skitarii adjusted their implants and moved into formations assigned by their wireless networks.

Suddenly the Reavers began to fire, the missile pods on their beetle like carapaces flashing as they sent heavy rockets over the horizon. Each warhead carried enough munitions to level a building and the horizon lit up as they crested the ridge. What waited beyond took their breath away; the Ork horde stretched from horizon to horizon, a seething ocean of green flesh. The horde was so thick one could not even see the ground. Trukks, Killer Kans and looted tanks tore through the mass, crushing their own kin under their armoured tracks in their reckless abandon. Scattered among the horde were towering effigies to the Ork gods, the crew started, mistaking them for Gargants but sighed in relief when they detected no power emissions.

Still the Ork horde was vast, the Legio Metallica had fought Orks on a thousand worlds but even they had never faced such odds, seven engines against millions. Any other force, even the Space Marines, would have quailed at such a sight but for the Titans there was but one thought in their minds: it was glorious. With a surge of rage each Titan's machine spirit tore into the minds of their crew, ancient arcane software overriding all with its demands for bloodshed and death and for once the crews did not fight it. With coordination born from millennia of war the Titans spilt formation, the sleek Warhounds veered off, using their speed to commence strafing runs against the flanks. Meanwhile the Reavers began circling the horde to corral the Orks and the mighty Warlords... the Warlords charged forwards into the heart of war.

Like the fury of their namesakes the Titans tore the world apart, moving and firing continuously. All along their line carnage was unleashed with every shot and thousands of greenskins died in the first minute. Bullets and shells rose to greet them but death was in their hands and hatred in their hearts: none could stand before them. '_Frater Audax'_ strode into the Orks her mega-bolters tearing through their ranks whilst '_Vivere est Vincere'_ poured fire into the deepest mass it could find, her Inferno cannons setting them alight with napalm. '_Ab Aeterno'_ liquefied hundreds of Orks with each shot of her plasma blastguns, the star-hot fluid melting flesh and armour alike while it simply stepped on and crushed Trukks and Killer Kans underfoot. '_Dies Judicium' _whipped the ground with her turbo-lasers, continually sweeping back and forth, burning away everything she touched. And all the while the constant stream of missiles slammed into the horde leaving building size craters as testament to their fury. Behind them thousands of Skitarii milled and churned, their implanted weaponry cutting through rank after rank of greenskins and sifting formation as their networks sought ever more efficient patterns of war.

In the thick heart of battle '_Dies Vindico_' was forced to keep moving as hundreds of Orks sought to throw grapples onto her shins. High above Princeps Hendrax snarled in rage and contempt as he guided the Titan's footsteps but did not let that distract him from his duty. He revelled in the carnage and cheered as his turbo-lasers tore through the Orks. The manifold pulsed with a torrent of data and the crews sense of self slipped away as they were lost in the mind of '_Dies Vindico',_ now they were truly one. Like a god among mortals '_Dies Vindico'_ walked the earth, every footfall shaking the ground, death heavy in her fists, calling down fire from above. She spied a column of ramshackle Ork tanks grinding forwards, three seconds later their existence ended in a blizzard of mega-bolter fire, detonations from the man sized shells hurling shrapnel into the surging mass of screaming greenskins. A battery of a dozen looted artillery pieces clumsily lobbed shells at the Titan from the base of one of the Ork's crude effigies but they were vaporised with a single shot from her Volcano cannon. A mighty Ork Dreadnought charged at the Titan, its pilot snarling and yells curses to his crude gods, '_Dies Vindico' _simply stepped on it as a man would step on a beetle.

The battle was going well and the Titans were slaughtering their way forwards but they were not having everything their own way. Constant shelling and airstrikes thundered down, the Titan's void shields held firm but they were forced to expend precious power to maintain their integrity. '_Dies Vindico'_ spied an entire column of Trukks a split second before they rammed into the foot of '_Vivere est Vincere'_. They were blown apart in an instant but did succeed in twisting her thick ankle bracing. She wobbled as her gyro-stablisers fought for control but with inexorable slowness she toppled forwards, creating one of the most spectacular sights of the 41st Millennium: Titan fall. The very earth quaked under the impact and cloud of dust arose so thick that even radar could not penetrate as the Orks swarmed over the corpse of '_Vivere est Vincere'_.

'_Dies Judicium' _screamed with fury at the death of the Reaver and charged deeper into the mass, her turbo-lasers sweeping across the horde, burning and incinerating all they touched. Any other foe would have been broken by the sheer horror of war but the Orks knew only savage fury and the horde surged forward once more, penetrating her void shield to swarm up her ankles and shins. The towering Warlord fell back step-by-step firing continuously into the mass but they were just too many to deny. In desperation the Titan backed up against one the Ork's effigies and she poured all her fire into the ground before her, turning it into a raging firestorm through which no Ork could pass.

For a moment she seemed safe but then suddenly and without warning '_Dies Judicium'_ suddenly exploded as her hull was penetrated by a massive impact, ending three thousand years of service in one second. However this appalling result was not caused by the Ork before her, this shot had come from behind. Throughout the battle the Titan's crews were shocked from their communion with the machine spirits as they registered a hundred power surges from all around them. With chilling clarity they all recognised the awful truth: the effigies weren't simple totems after all: they really were Gargants. Aboard '_Dies Vindico'_ Princeps Hendrax sat dumbfounded at this impossibility: the Orks were brutal simple creatures, never in a thousand years had they displayed such cunning. The Legio Metallica had walked straight into a trap.

Mustering every last dreg of discipline Princeps Hendrax began calling out orders, demanding targeting solutions, weapon locks and more power from the reactors. Concentrated by the reassuring familiarity of orders the crew responded and '_Dies Vindico'_ was the first Titan to resume firing. Facing off against three Gargants at point blank range Princeps Hendrax was cut off, unable to follow his brother Princep's battles. At this close range their superior accuracy and efficiency was rendered meaningless, all they could do was to blaze into the fray and pray for a miracle. Concentrating her fire '_Dies Vindico'_ tore into the first Gargant, turbo-laser batteries reassembling its face in a manner most pleasing to her Princeps. She killed the first one quickly but her void shields collapsed under fire from the other two and she began to shake and ring like a bell under the weight of fire.

Surrounded on all sides '_Ab Aeterno'_ slowed to a halt, her legs entangled in a thick briar of grapples and cabling. She swung about wildly blasting into the mass with her plasma blastguns but the Orks were too close under the arc of her fire and they swarmed up the lines. Screams tore through the airwaves as the Greenskins forced open the hatches and began to slaughter the crew. '_Frater Audax_' led a breakout with the twin Warhounds, pushing out to the very edge of the horde, blasting and burning in a desperate attempt to escape. Their escape vector was filled with swarming Ork and exploding shells but they pushed through, their leg armour ripped to shreds. The horizon was in sight but still blocked by a single Gargant, their desultory fire flicking off its void shields.

'_Frater Audax' _increased speed, the proud Reaver drawing away the enemy's attention so the Warhounds could circle and flank it. However before they could even fire the Gargant surged forward with impossible speed, a wrecking claw three stories tall plunged into _'Frater Audax' _gut_. S_he screamed as her crew were crushed into pulp and her reactors breached. Bleeding power and crew like lifeblood the Reaver could only stand helplessly as the gargant stepped back and with a crude laugh broadcasting over the vox, swung its claw again and beheaded the titan. Her pilots screamed as they fell thirty feet to the ground, impossibly he Princeps survived the fall but before he could even disengage the Orks smashed through the wrecked windows and slaughtered all they found. Only the Warhounds survived to carry the word of this utter defeat to the Imperial lines.

Trapped behind in the mass off the horde the '_Dies Vindico'_ was filled with bedlam, tech-priests yelling and screaming as sensori Dex called out damage reports, "Impacts, impacts, impacts! Armour at seventy percent and dropping, prow stabilisers failing."

"Continue firing!" was Princeps Hendrax's only response,

"Primary power conduit breached, servitors nine through seventeen dead, turbo-lasers one and four fused, the Mega-Bolter… the Mega-Bolter is gone!" the sensori cried in desperate terror.

"Continue firing!" Princeps Hendrax furiously screamed, "Fight for your lives, hold nothing back, give them everything you got! Where the hell is my Volcano Cannon?!"

The Moderati clung to his shaking his board and called up, "Volcano Cannon sustaining heavy damage, safety buffers are gone, charge capacity at seventy percent and falling we can't risk firing in this state."

"We have no choice Moderati", Princeps Hendrax called, "Our duty is clear: Fire!"

With a surge of power the mighty cannon spoke, a single spear of light tearing into one of the Gargants, punching straight through and killing the crude blasphemy with a single shot. The beam tore through and plunged into the Orks behind, incinerating a trench through the horde, hundreds dying in terrible fire. Sadly this act of defiance was to prove too much for '_Dies Vindico', _crippled and burning the cannon exploded under the strain. Terrible feedback tore through the power systems exploding conduits and cooking servitors as it fed into the reactor. On the bridge panels exploded and thick smoke filled the tiny cabin, Sensori Dex coughed heavily, his face filled with shrapnel but his mind link still strong. Which was more than could be said for Moderati Ghant whose brain had died in the calamity.

Sensori Dox was nearly overloaded by the feed of data but still called out "Reactor breached! Core temperature rising, estimate sixty seconds until we reach critical mass!"

A weak voice called out "Sensori" Dex turned and gasped; the Princeps was a sight to terrify a Titan crewman. The mindlink was strongest for the Princeps and he had felt every pain of his machine, deep psychosomatic wounds covered his torso and his face was barely visible under the blood streaming from the craters where his eyes used to be. But through the Titan he still saw a third Gargant standing tall, taunting them by not even bothering to finish them off: it was more fun to watch them burn. Princeps Hendrax swore he would not die like this and whispered, "Divert all remaining power to motive systems, full stride, take us at them…"

The last of the crewmen rallied to the call and Sensori Dex closed his eyes as he said, "Is this how we die… in failure?"

As the Titan staggered forwards lurching in agony, Princeps Hendrax smiled for the last time and said, "No, never for we die in the service of the Emperor, there is no higher calling."

And then, reeling like a drunk, '_Dies Vindico'_ collided with the Gargant just as her reactor went critical. They exploded together like the birth of a star and every Ork for five hundred meters was burnt to a crisp by the heat. A blast wave tore outwards, knocking thousands more to the ground and shrapnel was hurled miles in every direction killing randomly as it landed. And with that final victory the saga of '_Dies Vindico'_ ended.


	5. Chapter 5

**Steel Will**

The Manifold pulsed in his mind, a snarl of Binaric fury demanding to be unleashed. He could feel it battering at the walls of his mind, craving carnage and death. It was partly operational data, partly organic minds and part memory of the ancients who had sat in his throne before him, yet the greater part was the Machine Spirit of the Titan. A feral and untamed beast, ever straining at the leash. It was the soul of Ferro Vult but Princeps Yoseph Trasc was its master and his will was iron.

Princeps Trasc was a wasted man, his frame lean and spare. His hair was thinning and the arms clinging to the handles of his throne were thin and liver-spotted. His eyes were rheumy and his uniform stank from weeks of constant wear. Into the back of his head and spine were drilled hundreds of data-shunts, life-support feeds and waste-extraction lines, sustaining his meagre life as he commanded the Titan. He hadn't exercised in weeks and had been living on nothing but nutrients drip-fed into his veins by the Titan's life-support systems.

Surely the day would come when Trasc must ascend to an amniotic coffin and become little more than a sack of skin in the heart of the machine, but that day was years away. For today he sat as a man, weak and doddering in the flesh, but in the machine he was a God. Trasc's vision was the sight of a giant Titan, carrying miles in every direction. His feet covered leagues without noticing, his heart was a star, his skin steel and his arms were death. As a Princeps he had broken armies, laid waste to cities and been cheered by millions of desperate Guardsmen and Skitarii, his coming the Omnissiah's answer to Binaric prayer. Trasc was the Princeps of the Warlord Titan Ferro Vult and none could withstand him.

Trasc cast his rheumy eyes over the cramped cockpit-head of the Warlord and saw his crew communing with the Manifold. It was a tiny space, packed with controls, displays and tangled MIU cables. He could feel crew's souls through their shared link but he spoke to them with his organic voice. It was an essential part of retaining his identity, a reminder that a Titan was both man and machine. The day he lost himself to the Manifold the Titan's spirit would overwhelm him and rampage freely. He must be the master of his God-machine, a burden which only one in a million men had the will to endure.

"Status report," Trasc uttered in a hoarse voice.

From the left the phlegmy voice of Sensorii Jax answered, "No surveyor contacts, but that ammonia storm is generating a lot of electromagnetic interference, auspex return is distorted."

From the right came the jowly voice of Moderatii Yuga, "Void shields stable, weapon-servitors eager to engage. Macro-Gatling cannon loaded, Arioch claw charged and both Plasma Blastguns are primed."

From the nose of the cockpit, the nasal voice of Steersman Junto uttered, "Maintaining half-stride. Terrain is unstable; these ice-flows can barely hold our weight. Recommend we watch our step."

Then over the Manifold came the monotone drawl of Magos Killatt, the senior Tech-Priest of the Titan's crew located in the chest cavity, "Plasma reactor is purring like a carnodon. We have full power at your discretion."

Despite everything Trasc grinned, for a Tech-Priest Killatt had a strange turn of phrase, but he could fix a shattered gyro with nothing but duct-tape and a lit incense-burner, that was worth a bizarre lexicon. Trasc returned to the situation and said, "Keep a sharp eye out, the Orks could be anywhere."

Yuga growled, "Don't count on it. Greenskins wouldn't stick around out here, there's nothing to fight."

Trasc frowned as he admonished, "Reports claim the Orks have a presence in this wasteland. Some form of manufacturing base, maybe even a Stompa factory. Five Skitarii cohorts disappeared in this grid-sector."

Yuga growled, "Useless footsloggers probably froze to death. This mission is a waste of a Warlord."

"Orders are orders," Trasc snapped, "So tend to your duties."

Their debate was cut off as Sensorii Jax called, "Energy spike to port. Emissions are troubling, possible Engine contact, displacement suggest a Stompa."

Ferro Vult roared eagerly in the Manifold and Trasc grinned with anticipation as he ordered, "Junto, take us to port."

Jax asked, "Shall we summon reinforcements?"

"No, Ferro Vult wants this kill all to herself," Trasc growled, "Yuga: I want instant weapon locks. Killatt, bless the reactor, we will need maximum power at a moment's notice."

As one the crew obeyed, turning the Titan about. Their shared union of minds processed staggering levels of data-flow, sharing the workload of the Titan's mighty spirit with consummate skill. Each man was an organic cogitator, their brains hardwired to enmesh with the Titan and make it live. With heavy steps Ferro Vult came about, the slow-motion deceptive as every stride covered immense distances. Trasc exulted in the sensations running through his mind, he had been born for this, raised in the Collegia Titanicus and trained from the earliest age to command a Titan. Only one man in a million had the ability and will to command a Titan and he was such a man.

Trasc turned his attention outside. Beyond the Titan's skin frozen ammonia was crushed underfoot as the Warlord's tread left craters in the ice. They were walking across icebergs, floating on a sea of toxic chemicals. The air was an unbreathable mix of gases, hence why the only Mechanicus and Primaris Marines could fight here. A storm was raging outside, actinic lightning flashes hazing auspex returns. This whole planet was a worthless ball of chemicals, orbiting an uninteresting star. Utterly insignificant save that the Orks had set up a base, which made it a threat to the Indomitus Crusade's flanks. One that had to be eradicated with maximum prejudice.

Trasc was distracted as Steersman Junto pipped up, "Princeps, I'm concerned about the terrain. The ice is thinning and our weight…"

But he was cut off as Sensorii Jax screamed, "Contact! Hostile Engine dead ahead!"

Trasc could see it, a blazing spike of energy erupting across the auspex feeds as something massive emerged from the storm. A towering bulk loomed out of the haze, slab-sided armour plates rended in bloody red. On two waddling feet a mighty effigy of death and destruction burst forth, its mass eclipsing the Warlord by a staggering degree. It was covered in gunz, Zzap cannons and shooters, its front dappled with countless barrels and a huge cannon that stuck out of its belly. A pair of doughty arms hung low at either side, tipped with spinning buzz-saws and over its shoulders rose two extensions, covered in more gunz. It looked ramshackle and crude, a farce of a war machine liable to fall apart at a moment's notice. Yet in typical Ork fashion it not only worked it did so with deadly power. Its face was modelled as a grinning Ork's, leering in savage contempt for its prey and over the vox-waves it screamed, "Blud'spilla! Blud'spilla! Blud'spilla!"

Trasc's jaw fell at the sight and he breathed, "That's no stompa."

Sensorii Jax frantically wrestled with the auspex controls as he cried, "Confirmed! Ork Gargant approaching… no correction: Mega-Gargant!"

"Mega-Gargant," Yuga whispered in shock.

Junto breathed, "Omnissiah preserve us."

Shock and alarm rang through the manifold but Trasc held it at bay as he roared, "Don't just sit there, get me a weapon's lock and open fire!"

Ferro Vult's vox-horns roared as her weapons arrays locked on, then her weapons lit up the world. The right arm spun, multiple barrels clunking about as plumes of fire hurled shells the size of tanks at the leering foe. Her shoulder emplacements lit up with streams of plasma, spitting bolts of star-hot fury at the Ork contraption. Her left arm, fashioned into a fist, blazed as mauler cannons built into the back of the hand erupted. They were designed to clear out infantry formations but they added their fury regardless, desperately trying to overwhelm the enemy's protection.

Trasc watched as his Warlord threw everything she had at the Ork machine, desperate to claim first blood. Waves of plasma and solid shot slammed into the crackling power fields, creating a bubble of destruction around the Mega-Gargant. Yet Blud'spilla took everything the Warlord had to give without qualm, multiple layers of energy shielding absorbing the barrage effortlessly. The monstrosity shrugged off the barrage without suffering a scratch to its paintwork, then it returned fire.

The entire front of the Mega-Gargant lit up, hundreds of barrels firing as one, making the air throb and the ice crack under its feet as violent recoil shook the world. Trasc snarled as he felt the void-shields blowing out, layers of arcane protection failing under the onslaught. Through the manifold synaptic feedback stabbed into the meat of his brain, damage reports rendered into spikes of agony and torment. Ferro Vult's pain was his pain and he gnashed his teeth as overloads rang through the systems, killing servitors and wrecking vital components.

"Shields collapsing!" Jax shouted.

"Losing gyros on the port side," Junto cried, "We're bleeding servitors!"

"Reactor is fibrillating," Killatt called from the heart of the machine.

Trasc could feel it all and his hands locked into death grips on his throne's handles as he snarled, "Continue firing!"

"We're not making a dent on its shields!" Yuga hollered.

"Fire!" Trasc roared, "Rust take you, fire!"

On and on the barrage came, the Mega-Gargant chuckling over the vox-waves as it unleashed hell. Its firepower was staggering, burping shells, Zzap and las in a hurricane of annihilation. Trasc hated it, hated its power, hated its chuckling contempt, he even hated its face. The air between them was a lethal crossfire, both Engines throwing out tons of ordnance. Yet Ferro Vult was not a long-range killer, she was a close-support Titan, designed to get in close and rip the foe apart. At range Blud'spilla had the advantage.

"We must overload the Plasma blastguns!" Yuga shouted.

"Denied," Trasc snarled, "Ready the Arioch claw. Reserve power to the motive systems: Full Stride!"

Junto gasped, "But the ice, it can't support…"

"Walk!" Trasc roared, "Walk damn you!"

With great strides Ferro Vult began to walk. She marched straight into the barrage; her void shields a mere gossamer veil holding back total destruction. Straight into the mouth of hell the Warlord marched, closing the range step by step. Blud'spilla redoubled its efforts, flinging tons of ordnance at the Titan, a barrage that would have laid waste a city. Trasc felt every blow on the shields like a punch to the gut, he felt the Machine Spirit screaming in the manifold, he felt the air shaking and the ice under his feet cracking under the Titan's weight. He felt it all, but his will was iron and he pressed forward with unrelenting determination into the face of death.

Agonisingly slowly Ferro Vult closed, then both energy barriers touched and blinked out, leaving both Engines exposed. Trasc roared as his left arm jerked on the throne, responding to the swing of the Arioch claw. A hand as big as a Baneblade tank thrust forward, fingers the size of Dreadnoughts slamming into the Mega-Gargant. Crackling power fields chewed through armour like parchment, crumpling thick plates and spilling gunz and Orks like polluted blood. A sweep across the front of Blud'spilla ripped away a dozen gunz, shattering the frontage of the Gargant and leaving a trail of destruction down its chest.

Trasc snarled in triumph but his elation was short-lived. The Mega-Gargant's arms thrust forward and the spinning buzzsaw slammed into Ferro Vult. Now it was the Imperial Titan who suffered, her belly torn apart. Whirling buzzsaws cut through armour and internal systems, shattering gyros, eviscerating servitors and crewmen and spilling vital plasma from energy conduits. The guts of the Titan spilled out but then the reactor controls were destroyed, sending overloads racing through the system and blowing out the surge buffers.

Trasc screamed as he felt the lives of his crew winking out, their brains melted by overloading feedback. Their connection to the Manifold conducted electricity into their brains and they died instantly, heads reduced to charcoal. Yuga and Junto died, blood pouring from their eyes and ears and Trasc felt the full weight of the manifold fall upon him, neural overload threatening to end him.

Jax was shouting, "They're gone, they're just gone!"

But Trasc snarled through his agony, "Hold!"

"Plasma reactor is suffering hypovolemia!" Killatt screamed through the manifold.

Trasc knew it, he could feel Ferro Vult dying, bleeding energy and lives. As Blud'spilla withdrew its arms the Warlord staggered, almost toppling over. One more hit would end them and Trasc knew he had no power to resist. The Ork could finish them with ease. His mind was straining to hold together, the neural load almost too much to bear. Without his crew he had to remember to breathe, every beat of his heart requiring a conscious effort. Yet he would not relent.

Throwing everything he had into the Manifold Trasc took direct control of the legs, causing the Titan to walk backwards. Ferro Vult resisted him, trying to drive forward again, but he overrode the Machine Spirit with sheer will.

"I am your Princeps and you will obey me," Trasc snarled.

"We're retreating?!" Jax gasped.

"Shut up!" Trasc snarled as he stepped back three paces then halted.

Blud'spilla leered at him, its many gunz coming to bear once more. One volley would finish the crippled Warlord but Trasc was not done, his hatred of the foe driving him on. Breathe, he thought, remember to breathe, as he abandoned the legs and threw his mind into the Macro-Gatling cannon, lowering the right arm forty-five degrees: then he fired. The mighty cannon spun and a tongue of fire erupted, throwing tank-sized shells at the Mega-Gargant's feet. Ice plumes peppered the feet of the Ork contraption with chemical stews and Blud'spilla paused, unable to comprehend what was happening, but its gunz came to bear regardless. But then it paused as a vibration rang up its legs.

The ice, weakened by the weight of two Engines and melted by the heat of their exchange, gave way. Cracking lines of blackness ran through the ice, widening with every shell that slammed into the ground. It splintered and creaked as it tore apart, then it gave way, shattering into a million pieces of tiny flotsam. The ice crumbled and with a rumble that shook the world it dropped the Mega-Gargant into the icy depths.

One second Blud'spilla was standing proud, the next it was toppling into the sea. Its bulk dragging its form into the depths as Greenskins jumped from the head and shoulders. They failed to reach safety for the Mega-Gargant was too heavy and it plummeted into the sea like a stone, disappearing feet-first into the unplumbed depths. The last to disappear was the head, casting one last leer before it sank out of sight, leaving no trace it had ever been there.

Trasc released his control of the limbs with a gasp of relief, struggling to remember to breathe. He sagged in his throne and let the Manifold go, sinking into a stupor. Sensorii Jax was crying, "Engine kill! Engine Kill!"

He should have been elated but all Trasc could gasp was, "Secure… reactor. Quieten the Manifold, soothe the Machine Spirit. Vox-cast a distress call, tell command… we require an emergency repair team." Then his head flopped back and he stared at the ceiling as his chest heaved and Ferro Vult purred approval into his mind.


	6. Chapter 6

**Ice and Steel**

**271.M37**

The killing fields of Redjac's Folly were piled high with the dead. Mountains of Guardsmen lay everywhere, strewn over the muddy ground in various states of dismemberment. As far as the eye could see burned-out tanks smoked, their wrecks arranged in long lines. Dead cultists and Traitor Marines were amongst them, left grappling in death with the foe they had challenged in life. Long would this day be remembered, but there would be no celebration today. The victory had come at too high a cost for those who had fought it.

Over the bloody wastes a Dreadnought glowered. It was an older model, the nigh-mythical Contemptor pattern. It was humanoid in shape but twice the height of a Space Marine, its mechanical limbs able to rip a man in half and its reactor shimmered with heat. Its form was far smoother and more elegant than the brutal Castaferrum patterns favoured in this lesser age, yet shorter and sleeker than the awesome bulk of a Leviathan pattern and less lethal to the pilot as well. This Dreadnought's carapace was engraved with lightning bolts and storm clouds, making it beautiful to behold. Its right arm was comprised of the multiple barrels of a Kheres pattern assault cannon and its left was a mighty power fist, able to tear through a Tank's hide. Within the life-support sarcophagus a scrap of flesh hung in a web of feed-lines and neural connections, a warrior held one inch from death for two thousand years. His name was Honourable Ajax and he was angry.

"CASUALTY REPORT," Ajax growled in a mechanical snarl.

Beside him a shorter Transhuman in the white armour of an Apothecary managed not to cower as he replied, "Too early to say."

"GUESS," Ajax snapped.

The Apothecary swallowed nervously and stammered, "Estimate, quarter-of-a-million Guardsmen laid down their lives. Two tank regiments were obliterated, one Titan and two hundred and eight Storm Heralds were killed."

"TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHT," Ajax growled, "THIS DAY WILL NOT LIVE IN THE STORM HERALD'S LITANIES OF HONOUR."

The Apothecary protested, "But Honourable Brother, they died in victory over the Black Legion, surely that is worthy of note."

Ajax's torso turned slightly on its gimbal mount as he pressed, "LISTEN CHILD, IT SHOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN NECESSARY. THE BLACK LEGION WARBAND WERE ON THEIR LAST LEGS, THEIR DEFEAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ACCOMPLISHED WITH MINIMAL LOSSES."

The Apothecary protested, "My name is Intego, and I know well the Codex Astartes. Losses were higher than anticipated, but within acceptable ranges. The Primarch Roboute Guilliman wrote in Vol XII, chapter VI, verse XXVIII: 'Sacrifice…'"

"DO NOT QUOTE THE CODEX TO ME," Ajax rumbled, "I WAS READING IT TWO MILLENNIA BEFORE YOU WERE BORN."

Ajax turned his attention from the Apothecary and cast his vision-lenses over the battlefield. Grainy and hashed by distortion he yet saw into ranges beyond human perception, sensory input downloaded into the meat of his brain by the arcane Machine Spirits of the war machine that was his tomb. Ajax saw the piled dead strewn over the worthless fields of this pathetic planet, located deep in Segmentum Solar. He saw the bodies of his fallen kin, mixed with the hated black ceramite of the Traitor Legions.

These Storm Heralds were strangers, not one had been born the last time he was awake, but they were his kin and his comrades. They shared blood and honour, the same training regime had forged them and they looked to their Dreadnought brethren to lead them. Among them stood a dead Castaferrum, Glorious Zanthar, he and Ajax has been fierce rivals for two millennia, only for their competition to be cut short in the most inglorious fashion. The knowledge that he had failed to protect his kin made Ajax angry but what truly stoked his ire were the slab-grey bodies mixed among them. They were wearing a different breed of Ceramite, an icy hue that spoke of winter snows and freezing glaciers, covered in furs, teeth and runic totems. A mere handful of dead compared to the Storm Heralds but they were unmistakably Space Wolves.

Ajax's anger bubbled over and his legs began to walk. Behind him Apothecary Intego shouted, "Honourable Brother, where are you going?" Ajax ignored him, striding forward with grinding sweeps of his mechanical limbs. His every step carried him over dead brothers and his anger grew and grew. He passed teams of Chapter Serfs, struggling to find the lost and recover their gear, without comment. He steered around burned-out tanks and hateful Black Legion corpses without looking, seeking one soul in particular.

At the heart of the battlefield he found his goal. A scrum of Space Wolves gathered together, hoisting one warrior on their shoulders as they cheered in victory. Ajax's eye-lenses zoomed in and he saw the leader in exacting detail. His armour was replete with fetishes and barbaric tokens, Wolf teeth and runes of ice and hell. His face bore the distinctive fangs of Leman Russ's line and his red hair was braided into long plaits, that hung over his ice-grey armour. This was Wolf Lord Jtor, leader of the Great Company that had come to the defence of Redjac's Folly and he had good reason to be celebrating. One of his hands was encased in a lightning claw, stained red with Traitor blood and the other bore aloft the severed head of Sorgadon the Reviled, lackey of Abaddon the Despoiler.

Ajax stormed up to the crowd of Space Wolves and they turned in surprise as his booming footsteps rang loud in their ears. "MOVE," Ajax snarled, scattering the sons of Fenris as he made straight for Jtor. The Wolf Lord saw him coming and grinned as he waved his Marines to drop him. His boots hit the stained earth and he looked up at the Dreadnought bearing down on him and called, "Hail, cloud whisperer."

Ajax ground to a halt as he snarled, "STORM HERALD!"

Jtor sniffed, "Of course, of course. Have you come to celebrate my victory?"

"VICTORY!" Ajax bellowed, making the Space Wolves reach for their weapons, "YOU CALL THIS VICTORY?!"

Jtor didn't look intimidated as he replied, "The Traitor filth is dead. What else matters?"

"YOU ABANDONED YOUR POSITION!" Ajax yelled, "YOU HARED OFF SEEKING GLORY AND LEFT THE CENTRE OF THE ARMY TO COLLAPSE IN YOUR WAKE!"

Jtor chucked the Traitors head aside as he retorted, "I saw the filth with my own eyes and went for the throat."

"WE TRUSTED YOU!" Ajax growled, "WE GAVE YOU THE CODEX-POSITION OF HIGHEST HONOUR, IN RESPECT TO YOUR LEGACY. YOU LEFT US TO DIE, YOU LEFT TWO HUNDRED OF MY KIN TO BE GUTTED."

Jtor sneered, "Don't blame me if your quill-pushers couldn't keep up with true warriors."

"YOU CARE FOR NOTHING BUT YOUR OWN GLORIFICATION," Ajax growled, "YOU ARE NOT SOLDIERS, YOU ARE A GANG OF KNAVES AND BRAGGARTS."

"Those are fighting words," Jtor snarled as his lightning claws flaring to life as his Marines reached for their weapons, "Insult me again and I shall…"

He didn't get to finish for Ajax's fist lashed forward. With starting speed his huge arm slammed into Jtor and mechanical digits closed around the Wolf Lord. With no more effort than lifting a bag of flour Ajax heaved the Wolf Lord high, Ceramite armour creaking under the strain of his servo-motors. Jtor snarled in fury but his arms were pinned, he was helpless to fight back and his troops stood dumbfounded as their lord was snatched away. Ajax felt hatred surge through him, the urge to snuff out this life building in his withered hearts. He could close his fingers and squeeze the life out of Jtor, activate the power field of his fist and rend him apart or throw him into the ground so hard his neck snapped. It would be so easy and he almost did it, but then another mechanical voice blared, "Put him down!"

Ajax turned and beheld another Dreadnought lumbering nearer. This one was a Castaferrum, its slab-sided armour marked with runes of eldritch power. A wolf's skull was mounted on its front, besides the icons of a Marine wrestling a dread serpent and the Wolf That Stalks Among The Stars. Its right arm was an assault cannon and the left a mighty lightning claw, a wondrous relic reforged to fit a Dreadnought's frame. Ajax recognised this one, how could he not, it was Bjorn the Fell-Handed, oldest and most revered Dreadnought in the Imperium Entire.

"KNAVE," Ajax snarled as he tossed Jtor aside, "YOU WILL ANSWER TO ME FOR THE BLOOD LOST THIS DAY."

Bjorn slowly closed, every step laced with menace as he growled, "I do not answer to weak sops like you."

Jtor rolled to his feet and called, "Mighty Fell-handed, this one…"

"Shut your useless mouth pup," Bjorn snarled, "The grown-ups are talking."

Ajax however yelled, "THE HONOUR OF THE STORM HERALDS DEMANDS SATISFACTION!"

Bjorn's retort was a simple, "Your unworthy life ends here."

With a mechanical roar Ajax threw himself at the Fell-Handed, his assault cannon roaring. Solid shots rang off the Space Wolf like rain, scratching his glorious raiment but doing no harm. It was merely a warm up however, for Ajax's fist powered forward, hurtling right for his rival's amniotic coffin. Yet Bjorn twisted his torso away and he suffered no worse than a glancing blow. Golden icons shattered as Ajax's fist bounced off, marring the heraldry but the armour remained intact. In return Bjorn's lightning claw flashed and struck Ajax's right shoulder. Ancient talons, older than the Storm Heralds Chapter, cleaved through armour like parchment, ripping out cabling and tearing apart servo motors. Ajax was horrified to witness his right arm fall off, shorn from his frame to crash into the bloody mud. Damage reports rang loud in his mind but the Fell-Handed was only just hitting his stride.

As Space Wolves scattered Bjorn smashed forward and his claw ripped through the armour on Ajax's waist, shredding servo motors. The Contemptor struck back, ramming his fist into Bjorn's side but his blow barely made an impact. Back and forth the two Dreadnoughts fought, exchanging terrible blows. Ajax fought furiously but Bjorn's armoured hide was wrought by sciences lost unto the Imperium, fashioned by cunning tech-wights and Iron Priests whose like had not been seen in millennia. Ajax's mightiest blows were shrugged off like they were nothing and in return his systems were rent and torn. His oils leaking out of gaping wounds and his vox-caster cracked.

"Pathetic," Bjorn sneered.

In return all Ajax could muster was, "YOU… shall not… BEAT ME."

Once more the Dreadnoughts closed, tearing and battering at each other. Ajax fought with all his skill and strength but was horrified to realise Bjorn outmatched him. The Fell-handed's strength was remarkable, his ferocity unparalleled and his resolve unbreakable. He was as scornful and cruel as a blizzard, his attacks an unrelenting flurry of blows. He brought the fury of the winter world with him, carrying icy wrath in his heart that could not be denied. In two millennia Ajax had never seen the like, never met a foe so furious and implacable and he suddenly grasped how Bjorn had survived seven thousand years of war. His hate sustained him and his anger was a fire that could not be quenched. Ajax had nothing that could stand before such wroth and he saw that unless he could summon the same fury he was about to die.

Throwing caution to the wind Ajax dropped his guard. He unlocked his waist gimbal and spun his torso right. In a manner no living soldier could match the war machine spun about, exposing the reactor on his back. It was a most dangerous move, leaving his back open to a final blow, but for all his might Bjorn was a hair too slow and missed the chance. Ajax's torso spun and as it did so his power fist hurtled around, bringing the power of a wrecking ball right into the Space Wolf's sarcophagus.

Thunder rolled as fist met armour, power fields flaring like crackling lightning, and Ajax smote the front of the Dreadnought with every drop of his strength. It was a blow that would have cracked a Fortress gate, upturned a Baneblade and killed a Daemon and it actually made Bjorn step back with an immense dent driven into his front. The Dreadnought staggered away but Ajax was not elated, the Fell-Handed yet stood, withstanding a strike that should have cracked wide him open. Ajax was aghast at the sight, his mightiest blow had merely irritated the ancient war machine and he knew Bjorn's counter would finish him once and for all.

He braced himself to die but to his surprise the Fell-Handed merely stood still, utterly unmoving, then a grinding rasp of gears and mechanisms leaked from his frame. He was laughing, Ajax realised, the mechanical stutter of a Dreadnought trying to laugh. He was mystified as to what was happening until Bjorn declared, "By the All-Father, you have a punch that would make Russ himself proud!"

Ajax stood still, leaking oils and crackling with sparks as his broken vox-hailer wheezed, "YOU… didn't do… TOO BAD… yourself."

Bjorn laughed, "Look at us, two old sots bickering like Blood Claws. Our Primarchs would shake their heads at our brawling. Let's call it a draw, eh?"

Ajax was stunned by this sudden reversal, he didn't know why the Space Wolf had called off their fight. Yet the farce of their situation did tickle him. Two veteran warriors, lauded and revered by the mewling babes that called themselves Space Marines, fighting like drunks in an alleyway.

Bjorn's strength and ferocity had been phenomenal and despite everything Ajax realised he respected this warrior not only as a peerless fighter, but also for the deep wisdom hidden behind that armour. The Fell-Handed had shown Ajax there were only two options: fight until a warrior of the Emperor lay dead, or laugh. Despite himself Ajax chuckled, his gears grinding as he spluttered, "YOU ARE… still a braggart and a knave, but… YOU HAVE METTLE."

"Proud of it!" Bjorn laughed, "You gave me a good fight. If only we could drink some Mjod together and feast on a roast ox, then we could end our day properly."

Ajax snorted, "Maybe not but… THERE'S STILL SOME TRAITORS… drawing breath. We could rip a few apart..."

"Yes!" Bjorn laughed, "Come my most worthy friend, let us spill some Traitor's blood as comrades-in-arms!"

The dumbfounded Space Wolves made way as Bjorn and Ajax turned and strode from their ranks. Ajax walked beside this most fearsome of warriors and found the odd sensation of respect creeping over him. Despite their different ways and histories they were closely matched in purpose and resolve and it was an honour to be standing beside him. They had tested each other in spirit and in strength and neither had been found wanting, honour was satisfied. Yet one thing yet rankled him. As they walked Ajax lifted the ruin of his right arm and said, "YOU OWE ME A NEW ASSAULT CANNON."


	7. Chapter 7

**Final Chance**

The Scout-Barracks of the Storm Heralds were never quiet. Every hour of every day the training halls rang with the sounds of young boys being pushed to their limits and beyond. Assault courses were run and firing ranges filled with the noise of bolters and shotguns. In dour halls tactical sermons were conducted, glorious chapels rung with prayers and hallowed rituals from antiquity while screams echoed in the Apothecarions, as young bodies were broken and remade. Nearby arcane Hypno-indoctrination devices stamped obedience, fealty and adoration of Him on Terra into the brains of the Scout-Novices. And there were deaths, many, many deaths.

The training and gene-forging of a Space Marine was a perilous and painful process. There was more to it than cutting open prepubescent boys and sowing in the gene-seed. Minds had to be sculpted, skills honed and physical limits surpassed time and time again. The pain and the stress broke all but a handful of recruits, their bodies and minds shattered by the rigours of the ascension. Most died in live-fire exercises, or failed the deadly tests and training drills, falling from great heights, crushed by lethal traps or devoured by monstrous beasts they had failed to defeat, but the worst deaths were gene-seed incompatibilities. These ones died screaming in agony as their bones turned against them, weeping blood from their eyes and hearts seizing as incompatible genetics sealed their doom.

Only one boy in a hundred had the mettle to be selected by the Chapter and of those, only one in a hundred could forge the diamond-hard will and unbreakable zeal needed to ascend. For the failures and washouts, no consideration was given. Space Marines were bound by Brotherhood and kin-blood, but if there was one thing every Astartes in the galaxy agreed upon it was that weakness would not be tolerated. Once selected there was only success or ignominious shame and death. Either way there was no going back, nobody ever got a second chance. Except for one who did.

In a sparring dojo, lines of shuffling Scout-Novices departed, nursing aching bruises and vicious cuts from their free-form melee drill. They were heading back to their billets, for four blessed hours of rest before the next round of drills. In their wake a single neophyte remained. He had been left behind to clear away the blunted weapons and wooden staves used in the combat training. This recruit was far more battered than most, his skin black and blue from repeated assaults. He had been the target of the other neophyte's scorn, getting attacked thrice as often as any other Scout-Novice. He was the lowest in regard of the Tenth Company, held in contempt by all others, which was why he had been left behind to tidy up.

The reason for this scorn was evident, the mass of augmetics buried in his chest and larynx, a bionic respirator that replaced his lungs and voice box. Such replacements were common among the veteran Initiates and heroes of the Chapter, battlefield repairs for honourable wounds taken in battle. Yet for a neophyte to receive such revered tokens was unheard of, they had not earned the glory necessary to merit such rewards. Yet this one was different, his wounds had been taken at the hand of a Chaos Marine but not as a Scout-Novice. He had been a serf at the time, a lowly washout from the training regime, condemned by gene-seed incompatibilities in his natural lungs. His name was Bylan and he was the only soul ever to be given a second chance at entering the Storm Heralds.

Bylan ached as he picked up the various weapons from the padded mats. The room was bare otherwise, fitted only with weapon racks on the walls and servitors in the corners, waiting for him to depart so they could wash the blood off the floor. Bylan did his best to ignore his injuries but it galled him nonetheless. Each bruise was a reminder that he was not accepted in the Tenth Company, he was not truly a Storm Herald. He was an oddity, an outsider and the other Neophytes took pains to remind him of that every day. In all his life only one soul had shown him a modicum of respect, a Sergeant of Ninth Company who had seen his worth: Toran. Toran had took pains to save Bylan's unworthy life, petitioning for his readmittance and promising him a new future, if he could survive the training. Bylan owed that Sergeant everything and he had sworn not to fail his expectations. Bylan was determined to ascend, no matter what pains he had to suffer along the way.

Suddenly there was a shuffle behind him and Bylan sighed as he grasped what was coming. He fitted the weapons into their racks then turned about. Sure enough three neophytes stood behind him, wearing coarse shrifts that matched his own. Like him they were already developing the ginormous frames and muscles of an Astartes and their implantation scars were fresh and livid. They looked upon him with scorn and the leader sneered, "Not done yet worm?"

With a mechanical rasp Bylan replied, "+Must we do this every day Thyim?+"

Thyim's blunt face creased at being addressed so, his features always hard and quick to redden in offence. His fists were bruised, not from the training regime but from where he used them to beat down other neophytes, taking their rations and personal items for himself. Thyim was a brute, accustomed to using his strength to get his way and other Scout-Novices put up with it. Usually because Bylan was the favoured focus of his ire. Why the masters did nothing was a mystery but they let Thyim run wild for their own inscrutable reasons.

Thyim's face reddened as he snapped, "You dare speak to me so!"

Bylan scoffed, "+You're going to hit me regardless, so I can say what I please+"

"Look at him, accepting defeat so readily," sneered Jedda, a thin and weasely Neophyte, ever ready to lurk in Thyim's shadow.

"Perhaps he's ready to die," joked Tregha, a shorter Scout-Novice, used to feasting on Thyim's leavings.

Bylan looked upon the three of them and growled, "+It will take more than your words to kill me+"

"You don't fit here, washout, you don't belong," Thyim growled, "You are offensive to my eyes, you need to be taught a lesson."

Bylan braced himself and snapped, "+I can take whatever you can dish out+"

Thyim's lips pulled back over his teeth as he sneered, "I've been going easy on you so far but no more, today you suffer. Take him."

The three spread out, encircling Bylan and the neophyte's hearts sank as he realised they would attack him as one. Thyim's fists alone had been the bane of Bylan's life but he knew he could survive the beatings, but three on one he stood no chance. This was going to hurt. Thyim stayed to the fore as the other two moved into his blind spots, as they had been taught. Bylan raised his fists and readied for the fight to come, determined to land a few choice blows before it was over. Yet just as Tregha jerked to attack a deep voice rang through the dojo, "DESIST!"

All four of them snapped to attention as they saw the armoured form of Tenth-Captain Judio striding in. The Master of Recruits was a sterling example of an Astartes, grizzled, scarred and bald. His blue plate shone with glorious laurels and campaign badges and his right hand was encased in Power Fist. He loomed over the neophytes, the ultimate example of all they aspired to become and all were set back by his fierce anger and unwavering wroth.

"Attend!" Judio barked and the four fell into line instantly. Judio strode up to them and looked over them as he growled, "Brawling again, this pathetic display shames the Chapter."

Thyim dared to say, "Tenth-Captain we…"

"Silence!" Judio snapped, "You speak only when I give you permission to speak."

Bylan stood straight as Judio loomed over him and growled, "Day after day I watch your beatings, watch you fall on your face. Yet you have the gall to not die, when far more worthy Neophytes expire. Explain to me why you won't die."

Bylan refused to be browbeaten and replied, "+I did not come back from nothing only to fail+"

"Humph," Judio snorted, "I thought it was a mistake to readmit you. Nobody gets a second chance. Only a Sergeant's seal on the request swayed my mind. I humoured the petition, expecting you would die swiftly and be forgotten, but you stubbornly refuse to comply."

Thyim grinned ear to ear but Judio turned on him and barked, "You have nothing to laugh about! I have been watching you too, watching you bully and harass the other Scout-Novices. You have strength and ferocity but you have learned nothing of Brotherhood. You fight for nothing save your own wanton appetites, scorning the comradeship of the Chapter. You had promise but you wasted it in petty displays. Your mettle is soft and pliable. And your friends, sycophants and hangers-on, pathetic weasels flinching scraps. Not one of you is worthy of joining the Adeptus Astartes: you are all weak!"

Horrified silence reigned as Judio snarled, "It is my duty to forge Astartes, a grim duty I take most seriously. I must winnow the grain from the chaff, weed out the unworthy and the weak without hesitation or mercy. I accept this duty, knowing ninety-nine out of a hundred of my charges will die and when they don't, I find I must take matters into my own hands. I have been waiting for the four of you to die with dignity, but since you won't we will have to sort this out ourselves."

"But…" Thyim protested.

Yet Judio merely drew a combat knife with his left hand and threw it at the floor barking, "One of you shall continue your training, the other three shall die. BEGIN!"

There was a moment of silence then suddenly all four of them dove for the knife. Bylan found himself smothered in heaving muscles and hardened bones. Elbows hit ribs, knees slammed into groins and fingernails tore at skin as the four fought to grab the knife. All thoughts of Brotherhood and mercy were left behind, each of them knowing that the others would kill them without hesitation. Bylan wrestled for space, trying to get his hands on the knife and his fingers brushed the hilt, but then a hefty hand snatched it away. There was a thunk and a brief scream, then a spray of rich blood burst into the melee, painting the neophytes red.

Bylan instantly rolled away, getting clear and rose to his feet. Before him Thyim and Jedda rose, the bully holding a red knife in his right hand. On the floor Tregha lay dying, blood fountaining from the jagged gash in this throat. Rich arterial blood gushed forth as the Neophyte stared at the ceiling, eyes glazing as death took him. Bylan braced for the pair to rush him and Jedda snapped, "That's it, kill him!"

Yet to Bylan's shock Thyim swiftly spun and drove the point of the knife into Jedda's head, ramming it behind his ear up to the hilt. Bone shattered under the strength of Transhuman muscles and Jedda jerked as metal penetrated his brain. Then Thyim withdrew the knife and let the corpse drop. He lifted the blade before him then glanced at Bylan and hissed, "Only one survives."

"+Ragh!+" Bylan screamed as he threw himself at Thyim, knowing his only chance was to hit first.

Thyim roared as he stabbed forward but he only scored over Bylan's shoulder, leaving a bloody furrow. Bylan slammed into Thyim and the pair went over, thrashing and hitting for all they were worth. Thyim tried to stab him in the back but Bylan's elbow flashed out, knocking the knife from his hand. In return Thyim's hands closed around Bylan's throat, trying to strangle him.

Bylan grinned at the futile attempt, his Augmetics rendering him immune to choking. Yet Thyim's fist drew back and punched him in the face, making him see stars. The blow angered Bylan and something in his soul snapped. A torrent of anger flowed forth and made him jerk forward, sinking his teeth into Thyim's wrist. The Neophyte yelled in pain and his grip slackened for a moment. Instantly Bylan was on top, fists battering at the bleeding form below him. He struck for all the indignities he had suffered, he struck for the scorn he lived under and he struck out of the desperate need to survive. Then his eye caught the knife.

Bylan snatched up the knife and instantly his arm slammed down. Driven by his wrath, his hatred and his instinctive drive to survive it punched through Thyim's ribcage and drove into his primary heart. Time froze as Bylan's eyes widened and the veil fell from his eyes. His hands were slick on the knife, from the rich blood bubbling up around the blade and his hearts thundered in his ears at the enormity of what he had done. Thyim's jaw hung slack and his arms feebly waved in the air. His secondary heart was trying to take over the burden of keeping him alive but he was only partly Transhuman and it was faltering.

Bylan felt utterly detached and cold, barely able to comprehend what had happened and his eyes lifted to stare at Tenth Captain Judio, seeking guidance. The Master of Recruits however did not seem moved. He looked on with cold disdain as he uttered, "Finish him."

Bylan guts clenched in denial but his arm obeyed, jerking to carve across the chest. The knife found the secondary heart and penetrated it, ending its feeble attempts to keep Thyim alive. The Neophyte's eyes widened, then went cold and distant as death took him and his limbs fell to the padded floor.

Bylan reared back gasping for air and gasped, "+I killed him+"

Judio strode forward proclaiming, "Good, a worthy kill."

"+He was a Storm Herald+" Bylan breathed.

"Him?" Judio scoffed, "He was no Brother, he was weak and pathetic. A bully by nature and at heart all bullies are cowards. He would never have reached ascension. But you saved me the trouble of rejecting him. Now, explain why you killed him."

"+Because you ordered it+" Bylan replied blankly.

"Excellent," Judio crowed, "You do understand. Remember this lesson: fealty and obedience. Obedience above all. You must obey any order given to you by your superiors, no matter how vile and dishonourable."

"+Yes, Tenth-Captain+" Bylan replied numbly.

"Good," Judio stated, "Go wash the blood off and I will have some servitors take these failures away."

Bylan stood and marched away, unable to think past the next minute. Yet at the door he paused and asked, "+What do I tell the other Neophytes?+"

Judio's reply was cold and merciless, "Tell them weakness will not be tolerated."


	8. Chapter 8

**Regrets are all we have**

The fishing line soared through the still air, arcing gratefully as it curved. It plunged into a lake of pure water, so still it could have been a mirror. In those waters were reflected the snow-capped mountains with exacting detail, every crag and snowy slope picked out. The sun was low enough in the sky not to dazzle and its slow journey into night set the evening sky ablaze with pinks and reds.

The image shattered as the line disturbed the water, sending ripples outwards. The fisherman smiled at the sight as he leaned back in his cushioned chair, resting his rod in one arm and a warm beer in the other. He was an old man, long past his fighting years and his age was clear from the lines on his face. His hair was thin and white and the stubble on his chin was silver-grey. He wore faded blue overalls and a thick shirt, to fend off the chill of the mountain air. At a glance he would seem some lonely mountain hermit, eking out his last days in solitude, but several things about him belied that impression.

His boots were military-grade, thick and rubberised with patterned grips on the soles. His arms bore the scars of a lifetime of fighting and around his neck hung simple metal tags on a chain. Propped up against one arm of his chair was a standard Imperial Lasrifle and from the other hung an auspex scanner, glowing faintly. Even his position was carefully selected, sitting on a small pier sticking out of the lake, where no one could approach him unobserved. He had the air of a man at rest, yet one who was watchful and ready for the unexpected. His name was Franc Renhardt, once a Marshall of his nation, now nobody in particular.

Renhardt took a sup of his beer and enjoyed the moment. Around him the trees were noisy with the sounds of birds singing their evening chorus. The air was fresh and clean, quite unlike the dirty urban stench of concrete and smoke-belching engines, a smell that had only gotten worse since the Imperium's occupation of his homeland began. Renhardt preferred the quiet life, he'd seen more than his fair share of wars and harsh duty; it was time to enjoy his retirement in peace. The fact that he was persona non grata in the cities and towns of Nordlund also helped. His name was hated and despised across his nation, even by his own family. Renhardt sighed as old sorrows bubbled up in his mind. Never far from his thoughts at the best of times, but when the night drew in he would sink into his regrets and brood. His life had been spent poorly, his choices all wrong and his service wasted. Only at the very end of his career had he done anything of note and everyone hated him for it. No, night was not a good time.

Renhardt glanced further down the shore, where a small cabin squatted. It was his home and if he had his way his grave, the last speck of comfort he could find in the world. Renhardt considered reeling in his line and packing up for the day. It didn't look like he would catch anything today; it would be tinned rations for dinner again. Yet before he could move the auspex chimed. Renhardt frowned as he picked up the device and squinted at the small screen. It was technology beyond the understanding of Nordlund, crafted by secret arts brought from the stars. But he knew how to work it and he recognised three blips moving into range, approaching on foot.

Renhardt's jaw tightened as he reached for his lasrifle and stood up. With surprising haste for a man his age he jogged off the pier, running up the short slope of the bank. After a moment he stopped on a nondescript patch of earth and knelt to dig his fingers into the loam. Under his grip a buried tarpaulin came away, revealing a small hidey-hole underneath. Renhardt slipped into it and pulled the sheet over him, leaving only a narrow gap to watch through. To any passing observer he had almost vanished, indistinguishable from the dull slope. Then he settled in to wait.

Minutes crept by, stretching out into a half-hour. The sun sank low behind the mountains and evening darkened until it was almost night. The birds finished their chorus and the first stars became visible in the sky and still Renhardt waited. He knew better than to relax his guard and it seemed so too did the intruders. Whoever was trying to sneak up on him was waiting for nightfall, doubtless expecting an old man like him to be settling down for a meal.

Just as the red sky began to fade Renhardt spied three figures creeping around the shore of the lake. They were moving swiftly, with confident steps and taking a direct route to his cabin. Renhardt spied military issue uniforms, shorn of insignia and in their hands were Lasrifles. Their hostile intent was plain but Renhardt frowned as he judged their skills to be poor. They were heading directly for his cabin, not scouting the edges and they bunched together, standing too close to each other, one burst of machine-gun fire could take them all out. He spied one of their faces and was struck by how young they looked, none older than his grandchildren. Boys playing at being soldats. Yet there was nothing wrong with the guns they carried: standard Lasrifles, an increasingly common sight since the Imperial occupation began. No one carried those without meaning to use them.

Renhardt let the trio walk past his hide, moving on without noticing him. They were focused entirely on his cabin, not watching their footsteps for traps and snares. Either they thought him an incompetent old fool or they were half-trained boys. He waited until their backs were to him then silently lifted his sheet and stood up. He pointed his lasrifle at them and barked, "Stop right there!"

The trio froze, stunned by his ambush and the one on the right whispered, "What do we do?!"

"Be quiet," the middle one hissed.

"Drop the guns, then turn around and step back," Renhardt growled. Reluctantly the three complied, laying down their weapons and moving back. As they did so Renhardt got a good look at their faces. They were all solid local lads, their features distinct to Nordlund's stock. The one of the left looked afraid, probably scared of being shot. Renhardt thought he looked like he was in over his head, roped into a cause before he understood what it meant. The one on the right looked angry, a thug in a uniform. He was the sort who was born to make trouble, all he needed was a flag to stand under. The middle one however was different, he looked neither scared or angry. Instead he seemed driven and focused, his gaze unwavering and filled with hate. A fanatic, Renhardt judged, committed to the cause and willing to spill blood for it, anyone's blood. Renhardt should know, he'd seen enough of those types in his career.

"That's far enough," Renhardt uttered as he kept his rifle steady, "Names… now."

"Harns," the middle one admitted, "This is Bans and Guthet."

"No rank pins I note," Renhardt commented, "No serial numbers either. You've been briefed not to reveal anything but I know who you are. You're with Moger's lot, his rabble-rousers and thugs."

"You know?!" Bans gasped.

Renhardt scoffed, "I'm retired, I'm not dead. I have ears and a vox-set, I heard all about the attacks and uprisings, the rebellion against Imperial rule. I knew sooner or later Moger would order someone to end me."

Harns' eyes hardened as he growled, "No point denying it then. Yes, by the authority of the Freedom League and Chancellor Moger you have been convicted of treason against the sovereign state of Nordlund and sentenced to death."

Renhardt snorted, "Freedom League, is that what you call yourselves? Pathetic, you're no true Soldats."

Guthet's eyes reddened as he snapped, "You don't know anything! We're liberating Nordlund from the Imperium. We shall free our nation and then our whole world. All nations will unite with us to free our planet."

"Is that what Moger told you?" Renhardt scoffed, "He sold you a shiny fantasy but it's really a pile of stinking manure."

"Better to die for freedom than live on your knees!" Harns barked, "Better death than submission to the spacemen and their puppet governor. You sold us out, you surrendered to the Caliphate and his Imperial masters."

Renhardt sighed forlornly, "Yes I did. Ten years ago I saw the Imperium rampage over our armies, shatter our mightiest panzer divisions and rain down fire from orbit. I saw Space Marines, the Astartes themselves, and I knew we had no chance of beating them. So I did what I had to, to save whatever and whoever I could from the senseless slaughter. Marshall Renhardt signed the surrender and so saved millions of boys like you from dying to a bolt round."

"You committed treason," Harns growled, "We weren't done fighting. Had we held on we could have won, we could have beaten them back."

Renhardt's jaw fell as he spluttered, "Oh you poor fools. Moger's only gone and got you thinking you have a chance. He's got you believing you can win."

"Chancellor Moger has proclaimed Nordlund's victory is at hand!" Guthet spat.

Renhardt sighed, "There it is: Chancellor. Not Marshall, not even Kommandant. Moger is no Soldat, he's a politician. Oh yes, I've heard his speeches on the vox and its stirring stuff but I note he's never turned up in person to a fight. He's always safe behind the lines somewhere, while boys like you bleed and die in the dirt. I bet he's never even picked up a rifle and risked being shot at. I've seen a hundred Moger's in my career and they're always eager for someone else to die for the cause, but always conveniently absent when the bullets start flying."

"You coward," Harns growled.

"My own family disowned me, my name is reviled and spat upon. You'll have to make better insults than that," Renhardt snapped.

Harns hissed, "Pride, dignity and courage, you don't know what they are!"

"Words," Renhardt sighed, "Words old men parrot to get young fools like you to go out and die for them. You have no idea how many boys I saw sent out to die by Kongress, how many young lives they fed into pointless wars without a qualm. You think Moger will mourn you, he doesn't know your names and when you die he won't shed a single tear. Your pretty words won't stop the Imperium. I've seen their space ships, I've seen the size of their armies and the Space Marines first hand. Have you seen a Space Marine? I thought not, you won't stand a chance when they bother to put down this rebellion."

Bans whimpered, "This was a bad idea, maybe we should."

But Harns yelled, "Nordlund shall be free! No matter how much blood it costs. We're far ahead of you. The cities are ours, the Imperial garrisons have fallen and the banner of the Freedom League flys high over Konningsberg. We've seen off the Imperium's armies once and we can beat them again!"

Whatever reply was coming was cut short as a terrific scream rent the sky. All eyes rose as a blazing meteor plunged out of the darkening night, hurtling earthward at stupendous velocity. It disappeared behind a mountain and long seconds later the sky blazed a fierce red, lit from horizon to horizon by the fires of hell. Moments later thunder rolled and the ground shook, sending clouds of birds into the air with shrieks of terror and the waters of the lake danced in sympathetic pain.

"What was that?!" Bans yelled.

Renhardt grimly stated, "That was a Magma bomb. Judging by the angle I'd say it just obliterated Konningsberg."

"Obliterated?!" Bans gasped, "But two million people were living there."

"Not anymore," Renhardt uttered, "If Moger was anywhere near that, he's dead, along with your Freedom League."

"But why?" Bans whimpered.

"To make an example of us," Renhardt stated, "The first time the Imperium came they wanted to conquer us, to take our resources and industries intact. This time all they will want is to grind everything to dust. They will make an example of Nordlund, to show the other nations of our planet what happens to rebels. First will come the orbital bombardments, then the drop-pods. Astartes will sally forth and slaughter all they find. They won't stay their hands for anything."

Sure enough the sky split again and again, each one signalling the death of a city. Bans cried, "My parents live in Konningsberg!"

"I'm sorry," Renhardt said with genuine regret.

But Guthet gulped, "My family are farmers. They live leagues from anywhere."

Renhardt nodded as he prompted, "You came here in a truck? Good. Then get in it and drive. Drive straight to your family and throw them in the back, then head for the border. Stop for nothing and no one, not even to help someone. With luck you might get out of the country before the Imperium notices you."

Guthet immediately turned and fled, running for the hills. Bans waited for a second then followed, seemingly having nowhere else to go and no other ideas. Harns however held still, eyes raging with anger. His fists tightened and his jaw clenched as he spat, "You did this."

Renhardt snorted, "No, you and Moger did this. Your revolution never had a chance, the Imperium has the means and brutality to erase this nation. You should have recognised that truth and made the best you could of your life. I did, my family hates me but at least I got them out of the country before they stopped speaking to me."

"Cowardice," Harns growled, "You'll never understand why we fought."

Renhardt sighed, "To make one group of old men richer than some other group of old men. That's all revolutions boil down to in the end. I've seen more than my fair share of wars and behind the scenes someone is always getting rich off it. Your revolution, how many innocents has it killed? How many ordinary people were shoved up against a wall and shot? To me the only difference between you and the Imperium is the scale of your firepower."

Harns' eyes dropped to the Lasrifles on the ground and Renhardt growled, "Don't, I've got you in my sights."

Harns hissed, "I've got nothing left to live for and you're an old man, slow and likely to miss…"

Renhardt hissed, "Then I suppose it all depends on how lucky you feel."

So night fell over the mountains as the horizon burned. Fiery reds painting the slopes the colours of flames like a vision of a heathen hell. As the tiny black motes of Drop-pods appeared in the sky the sound of a single las-shot rang over the mountains. Then all was silence.


	9. Chapter 9

**Realpolitik**

Georgios Mandas didn't care for his new office. It was too big, too echoing. The wooden panelled walls were too far away, the portraits hanging on them Admirals he didn't recognise from Millennia earlier. Lighting was provided by a ridiculously ornate chandelier, blazing with electro-candles and the floor was covered in carpets so rich they crackled with static. A servitor stood in the corner, its arms replaced with drinks dispensers and its toothless mouth drooling sputum. True, the window gave a fine view of the interior of Salamis base but Mandas would rather have been standing on the bridge of a starship, feeling the deck rocking under him as the shields soaked up fire. Sadly he was a rear-admiral and as a Flag officer a certain level of pomposity was expected.

Mandas leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the Nalwood desk. Nalwood, a stupendous extravagance since the planet Tanith burned during the Sabbat's World Crusade. The cost of this desk could have fed a dock-rat family for a year, but to the Admiralty it was one frivolous waste among hundreds. Mandas was a mature man, with the olive complexion common to the dock rats of Tectum, his age was in the triple digits yet thanks to expensive Juvenat treatments he had the vigour of a man in his thirties. He wore tight black boots, polished to a sheen and a dark frockcoat, tightly buttoned with a high collar. His attire was oddly plain for a Flag officer, merely gold trim at the wrists and golden epaulettes and a single medal on his chest, an overlarge 'U' icon pinned to his breast.

That one medal was worth more than gold braiding and a plethora of awards. It marked Mandas out among the Admiralty, gifting him a station a common-born man like him could never hope to reach. Awarded for valour against the Word Bearers during the Great Refusal by the hand of the Primarch Roboute Guilliman himself, Imperial Regent and Lord Commander of the Imperium Entire, it had been taken from the Armour of Fate and marked Mandas as the 'Hero of Tectum'. That title had won him a Flag Rank, marriage to the youngest daughter of the Lord Admiral of the St Karyl Sector and set him up with wealth and influence. None of which made him feel any better at this moment.

The cause for his sullen mood was the portly Commissar sitting across the desk saying, "Don't forget you've got dinner with the Yannatos family tonight. Your wife wants you there promptly this time."

Mandas rubbed his brow as he muttered, "Deetor, why do I have to go?"

"Because the Yannatos banking clan are stinking rich and your father-in-law wants you to curry favour," the reply came.

Mandas glared at his Commissar resentfully. Deetor Kaath-Dousmanis hailed from a lesser branch of the sprawling Dousmanis household, the Lord Admiral's own family. He had been a nobody, a late son to a minor household, not expected to achieve much in his life. On a ship he had been diffident and ineffective, which suited Mandas as it gave him free rein, but as adjutant to a Flag officer he excelled. His grasp of politics was second only to his exacting memory for the endless dinners, dances, concerts and receptions that made up life among the aristocratic Old-blood of the Admiralty. Between the Commissar and his wife the Admiral's life had become a whirlwind of engagements, toasts and palm-shaking, but he had to admit without their aid he would be utterly lost. The downside was Deetor had embraced the life of fine dining and heavy drinking with gusto. His frame had always been portly but now he was diving headlong into obesity, if he kept this up the Rear-Admiral would have to commission him a suspensor belt to reduce his weight and allow him to walk.

Mandas groaned, "Can't my wife go alone?"

Kaath-Dousmanis tutted, "Your wife isn't the Hero of Tectum. Your father-in-law wants to show you off, you're his prize asset."

"His pet simian more like, brought out to dance for the amusement of the masses."

"Now, now," Kaath-Dousmanis chided, "You have important responsibilities, making faces doesn't help. You need the Yannatos banking clan to be awed by your presence. You father-in-law has plans for that clan."

Mandas muttered, "Why should I care what they think?"

Patiently Kaath-Dousmanis laid out, "Because while you're charming their patriarch you will convince them to extend a line of credit to the Ateos ship-wrights. With those loans the shipyards can refit Rogue Trader Carthae's flotilla for an expedition into the Heraculan Deeps. In exchange he's promised us eight thousand plasma relays he's not using... and you need those plasma relays to refit your Cruiser squadron."

"Horse trading!" Mandas spat, "That's all this is. Currying favours and greasing palms."

"This is how the game is played," Kaath-Dousmanis reminded him, "You need more influence if you are to get anything done."

"It shouldn't be necessary, the Mechanicus should have delivered those relays to Athena Drift Dockyard three months ago. Instead they mysteriously got rerouted to Kymarna yards."

"What do you want me to say?" Kaath-Dousmanis sighed, "The Word Bearers left Tectum wrecked and rebuilding is slow. The Primarch gutted Battlefleet Karyl to rebuild his Indomitus Crusade. Everybody is left scrabbling for scraps, taking whatever they can get. Every admiral is convinced his project is the highest priority and they aren't shy about grabbing what they can. Its a knife-fight out there."

"I hate it," Mandas growled, "Give me a ship and an enemy I can shoot at any day. I can't do schmoozing and arm-twisting."

"Well, you'd better learn, You're falling behind everybody else."

Their conversation was interrupted as a small vox-horn built into the desk chimed and a feminine voice issued forth, "Admiral Mikolas to see you, Sir."

"Send him in," Mandas replied eagerly.

Kaath-Dousmanis stood up and brushed off his ever-expanding belly as he said, "Best I wasn't here. Remember what we discussed."

"I know, I know," Mandas snapped.

The Commissar waddled out and moments later another man stormed in. He was ancient, even by Imperial standards, five hundred years old and still strong. His face was pale and liver-spotted, his head bald and eyes rheumy. He had long surpassed the age Juvenat treatments could disguise his years and was forced to walk in a clanking exoskeleton, his body held aloft by grinding pistons and rods. Yet for all that there was fire in his eyes and a firm set to his jaw. Flintof 'Ironheart' Mikolas, the oldest and most cantankerous Admiral in Battlefleet Karyl. He was a fierce soul, beloved by among the ranks for his harsh tongue and unflagging ardour. During the Great Refusal the old warhorse had eclipsed a hundred junior captains, fighting longer, harder and more brazenly than any man had a right to do. Mandas has long admired this man and in his honest moments believed Mikolas should be wearing the Primarch's medal, not him.

Mandas stood up and walked to greet the old admiral as he said, "Admiral Mikolas, good to see you."

Mikolas' lips pulled back over ceramic teeth as he chortled, "Rear-Admiral Mandas, I see you've got your arse nicely settled."

Mandas scoffed, "I don't intend to get fat and lazy."

"None of us do, at first," Mikolas muttered sullenly.

"Amasec?" Mandas offered.

"Make mine a double," Mikolas agreed.

As the servitor poured their drinks Mandas steered the old Admiral over to the window and remarked, "The office is too plush for me, but I do like the view."

"Seen it," Mikolas quipped as he took a glass filled with amber nectar, "Not impressed."

"It has its merits," Mandas argued, "Look."

Indeed the window looked out of the First Concourse of Salamis base. The epicentre of Imperial power in the Sector. The ancient space station had suffered greatly in the cruel tides of war but looking out over the interior one would not know it. Vast boulevards teemed with the rich and powerful, going about their indolent lives indifferent to the woes of the billions starving in the Hive cities and manufacturing hubs of Greater Tectum. Richly furnished buildings lined the avenues, looking over the crowds with stately grandeur. Statues of noble heroes were being carefully repaired by artisan-masons, labouring to undo the ugly bolt-rounds and claw marks that Chaos had left upon them. On the corners orchestras played soft music, and fountains bubbled as noble ladies drifted by, their gowns competing with each other for ornate finery. Over all cyber-cherubs floated, showering incense onto the heads of the rich and powerful.

Mandas pointed to a particular building and observed, "You can see the offices of the Phalaris merchant-clan from here."

Mikolas squinted and then laughed, "Oh yes, I see. You want to remind me I owe you a favour. Yes it's true, your advice was most timely. My household's holdings were mauled by the invasion, damn near broke our finances. I was facing hard times until you tipped me off your father-in-law was offering contracts to their consortium. Invested everything I had left and its paid off big-time. Not very subtle of you to remind me, but I get the point."

Mandas supped his amasec, enjoying the peaty flavour, as he asked, "I need to ask you about something. There have been a lot of troubles with supply lines, a lot of diverted shipments and countermanded orders. Parts go missing, work crews get reassigned, officer deployments changed without warning."

"You've noticed it too," Mikolas sighed, "Yes, its a tussle and a half. Forget appearances of civility, behind closed doors the knives are out and they are bloody."

Mandas nodded as he murmured, "My wife and Commissar are always on at me to make more connections, to flatter and dazzle and schmooze my way up the greasy pole. I hate it, I want my squadron to be out in space, fighting the enemies of Mankind."

Mikolas snorted, "Don't we all, but you should listen to your advisors. You're an Admiral, a Dousmanis no less, and you have to learn how things work. Backroom dealing and favour trading, that's what it all comes down to. If you don't play the game you're finished. There are plenty out there who want you to fail, because you're a threat to their designs, because you might eclipse their power base or simply because they think you're a weak link in the Dousmanis household. You have to be ruthless and merciless, learn how to stick the knife in where it hurts, because others will be looking to do the same to you."

Mandas lowered his eyes as he lamented, "I knew to expect rival households to fight me, but its the way my friends turn on me that hurts. People who should be on my side, who smile to my face and promise to support me, while they're busy stealing supplies from under my nose. It's not right."

"That's your mistake," Mikolas sighed, "You're still thinking in terms of friends and rivals, allies and enemies. Let me explain one thing to you: you don't have any friends. There's the people you use, people you control and everybody else is an enemy."

"How do you think such things?" Mandas asked.

"Continuous practise," Mikolas elaborated, "Three kinds of people exist in your world now. Cattle, that's common folk, junior officers and such. They do what you tell them, when you tell them. Make sure they keep in their place and never know you're robbing them blind. Then there are assets, you cultivate them, make deals and trade favours, but never trust them, they'll turn on you given half a chance. And lastly threats: business rivals and other households. You have to learn to be ruthless with them, use whatever dirt you have, whatever edge you have to bring them down. If you hesitate, they will destroy you."

Mandas turned to look at him and asked, "Is that why you betrayed me?"

Mikolas spluttered on his amasec as he spat, "What?!"

Mandas growled, "Don't play me, I know it was you. You're the one stealing my supplies, rewriting my orders and stealing my officers. You must have taken me for a fool, too bull-headed and blind to see what you were up to, but I caught on at last. You've been sabotaging my squadron all along, pulling strings to divert my resources to rebuild your own formations!"

Mikolas stared at him for a long moment then sneered, "I thought you'd never catch on. Yes I did it, I saw you wallowing about like a fat foul waiting to be plucked and I seized the opportunity. Don't act surprised, I told you, you don't have friends anymore. You were a good Captain, but as an Admiral you're a threat and I haven't lived five centuries by waiting for my rivals to fire first."

Mandas glowered back as he hissed, "Well... that makes this easier."

Suddenly the concourse below erupted into wailing alarums and screaming people as black Rhinos piled in. They drove through the crowds, only narrowly avoiding running over fleeing people and rolled to the buildings of the Phalaris merchant-clan. Doors slammed open and black-visored Naval provosts poured out, shoulders gleaming with the signs of the Lord Admiral's authority. They rushed the doors with shotguns in hand, brooking no resistance. All was calamity and alarm as they disappeared within, leaving bedlam in their wake.

"What going on?!" Mikolas cried in concern.

Mandas grimly informed him, "The Phalaris merchant-clan has been under investigation for some time. Evidence points to them being involved in the Word Bearer attack. They smuggled Chaos agents into positions where they could do most harm, supplied detailed maps of the defences and deployment schedules. The Phalaris family are Traitors, as are all who deal with them."

Mikolas stomped about as he roared, "But I've dealt with them! You told me to invest in them."

Mandas' eyes hardened as he snapped, "Oh yes, your name will feature heavily in their dockets. Worry not though, I can intercede with my Father-in-law, tell him you had nothing to do with their treachery. He will understand your plight and with luck we can keep your name from the Inquisition."

"Inquisition..." Mikolas spluttered in dread, "You.. you set me up!"

"I did," Mandas growled, "I needed leverage and now I have it."

Mikolas ground his jaw then spat "What do you want?"

Mandas declared, "Stop stealing my shipments, help me get my squadron back into space and place your household under the Dousmanis' aegis. Your house will stand with the Lord Admiral's from now on and who knows, you might even profit from it."

Mikolas stared long and hard, face glowering with anger, but then he snorted, "Well played boy, I didn't think you had it in you but you have some balls. It seems you've learned the game of politics after all. I thought I was schooling you but actually you were teaching me. Maybe you'll hack it as an Admiral, but don't get too comfortable. I admire your boldness but I won't forget this, one day we'll cross swords again."

"I look forward to it," Mandas said, "But next time, I won't wait for you to strike first."

Top of Form


	10. Chapter 10

**Capio Dominatus**

"Increase fire from the starboard batteries!" Captain Erathor roared, "Whip the ratings until they bleed if you have to but keep those guns firing. Where the hell are my bombardment cannons?!"

"Magma bombs loading," Brother-Lieutenant Hodds replied smoothly, "Salvo ready in sixty seconds."

"Too slow," Erathor snarled, "Tell them the Throne will cast out any soul who doesn't double their efforts."

"Aye Erathor," Hodds replied with a snide hint of scorn to his tone.

Erathor gritted his teeth at the implied disrespect but he needed to be above such petty jibs. He cast his eyes across the bridge and saw hundreds of serfs and servitors labouring in orderly pews. Like all Imperial capital ships the bridge resembled a Cathedral, from the stacked pews to the ordnance pulpit and enignarium pits. The walls were covered in glorious renditions of famous victories and the roof was painted with a fresco of the Emperor addressing his Legions, the warrior-god holding his flaming sword aloft as he bellowed exhortations to stacked ranks of Astartes, their banners and laurels flying proudly.

This was the bridge of the Thunderlord, the Storm Herald's most potent and revered warship. A classic Battlebarge, Mars built and with a history that stretched over four thousand years of victory. Heavily armoured and with a punch that would rival a Battleship's the Thunderlord was a fearsome opponent. She was Erathor's to command but only begrudgingly so and with great rancour.

Erathor was a proud marine, in glorious plate. His face was regal, a heritage bequeathed to him by his blood. Hailing from the finest nobility of Lujan II Erathor was born for greatness. This vision of splendour was marred by his augmetic legs, wounds taken in a shameful civil war among the Storm Heralds. Erathor had been on the wrong side of that war, the losing side, and had endured a Penitent Crusade as punishment. He had returned redeemed only to find his presence most unwelcome, his kin thinking he should have died on his quest. Still a laurel of forgiveness could not be argued with, so the Chapter had made him Master of the Fleet and tasked him with securing the fringes of their protectorates. An inglorious mission but one he embraced gladly.

The bridge rocked again under his feet, making Erathor's piston legs wheeze as he swayed. He gripped the rail tightly and snarled, "Sixty seconds are up, where are my guns?"

"Stand-by," Hodds replied, "Stand-by… ready!"

"Fire!" Erathor cried with relish.

The Thunderlord spoke and space was rent as fat Magma-bombs shot from the emplacements on her spine. City-killers and world breakers, the munitions were equally deadly to warships and Erathor lifted his eyes to the Hololith to watch their progress. The shells tore across space, closing upon the Fra'al battlecruiser hanging off their starboard flank. The craft was a strange conglomeration of hexagonal modules, bolted together in ways that made no sense to human sensibilities. Plates were layered on top of each other, pointless spars and towers stuck out of it at random and the prow had a distinct trident shape.

Imperial ships were looming fortresses, covered in armour and cathedrals to the Imperium's glory. By comparison this was so spindly that it should shake apart with every turn, but that ungainly appearance was deceptive. The vile Xeno craft could out-manoeuvre any Imperial cruiser and had a weapon system that would make an Eldar weep with jealousy. Massing no more than an average line cruiser the contest should have easily gone to the Thunderlord yet the Xenos' energy barriers had already soaked up a full broadside and her strange Ethercannons punched through shields like they weren't there. She was indisputably a dangerous foe, but she had yet to taste Magma Bombs.

Erathor watched as plasma, missiles, shells, las and grav hammered her barriers continuously. Then the Magma bombs struck. A fat round slammed into the barriers and blew them out in an electro-static bang. The barrage had been timed to perfection, each shell hitting a second apart. The next bomb glanced off an ablative plate, blowing it to shreds but doing no further damage. Yet the next two slammed into the cruiser's aft and plunged deeply within before exploding, tearing vital drive modules to splinters like a bolt round detonating inside a body. Spilling drive plasma into the void the Fra'al cruiser wallowed in agony, her ability to fight crippled beyond repair. She turned her bow to the stars and limped away, retreating as fast as she was able.

"Energy emissions falling," Hodds declared coolly, "She's crippled and running. Permission to heave about and finish her off?"

Erathor could see the opportunity before him but declined the kill and ordered, "Negative, come to course 128 mark 000, maximum thrust."

Hodds blinked in surprise, "We're not claiming the glory of the kill?"

"We cannot waste effort on personal glory," Erathor retorted, "Not while Brothers are dying."

He lifted his eyes to the Hololith and saw the battle raging. The Thunderlord was sailing off the edge of a gas-nebula, one of the many anomalies that dotted the Serrati Stellas, that perennial blight on the Saint Karyl Trail. The battlebarge's taskgroup had been undertaking a routine patrol cruise through that den of iniquity when they had been jumped by a pair of Fra'al vessels. Those noxious alien raiders and pirates of the space lanes, ever ready to prey upon Imperial shipping and raid isolated colonies. Running into them was a battle unlooked for, but one Erathor was determined to win. Unfortunately saying it was far from making it so, and right now it looked like the Fra'al were winning.

Off the port bow the Strike Cruiser 'Hundred Centuries' was trading fire with another Xenos Battlecruiser, the Storm Herald's vessel raked by repeated Ethercannons salvoes. Nearby the frigates of Grendel squadron were beset by swarms of strike craft, five Gladius-class escorts filling the void with tracers as they tried to fend off clouds of Clawcraft. Thunderhawks chased the Fra'al through the void but the Xenos pilots were good, damned good, and kept skipping through the defence to carve craters out of the frigates. The battle hung upon a knifes edge and the slightest thing could turn it either way. Oh, for a single Company of Space Marines on board, Erathor lamented. With such might he would break this foe but there were none to be had, he hadn't been trusted with such power. All he had were guns, so he would have to make do.

"Grendel squadron is overwhelmed, launch the Overlords!" Erathor ordered. From the Thunderlord's launch bay soared arrowheads of gunships. They were new technology and Erathor loathed using them, he'd intended to leave them in reserve, but he had nothing else left so into battle they went. Erathor could only trust his pilots were the Xenos' equals and turned his attention to the bigger ships. He spent a second calculating vectors then ordered, "Steer course 018 mark 345, reload all guns and stand by to engage. Signal the Hundred Centuries to hold course."

Hodds spun about, broad face filled with shock as he said, "They can't withstand that barrage long enough for us to get there!"

"Obey my order," Erthaor snarled, "Send the signal. The Hundred Centuries will draw their eye then we cut across their stern and rip their guts out."

Hodds looked like he was going to argue but sullenly turned and said, "Complying."

Erathor gritted his teeth at the disrespect but knew it was merited. Hodds had been on the other side of the civil war, the winning side. Hodds was firmly of the opinion that Erathor should have found an honourable death instead of returning to trouble the Chapter, but they were lumped together and the Captain was not blind to the opportunity. Erathor needed to prove himself in the eyes of his Brothers. He needed to prove he deserved his place in the Chapter. If he could convince Hodds, then he could convince anyone.

In the Hololith the Hundred Centuries was wallowing in agony. Her shields were useless and her hull ravaged by Fra'al Ethercannons. This battlecruiser was twice the size of her companion and carried a far heavier broadside. Imperial gundecks spat defiance but Hundred Centuries was outgunned thrice over and her struggles grew feebler by the second. Great gouges were being ripped from her spine, leaving bleeding wounds as the proud strike cruiser wailed. Plasma, air and struggling bodies were sucked into the void, crewmen dying by the hundred as the Xenos smote her most cruelly. Erathor ached to intervene but the vectors were not forgiving, he needed more time to get into position.

Seconds passed like eternity as the Thunderlord closed, weapon batteries loaded and ready. She was bearing down at maximum acceleration, heading to cross their sterns at point-blank range but it was taking too much time. More firepower rained on the Hundred Centuries but Erathor could only wait until the port gun decks were aligned and he roared, "Divert reserve power to weapons, lock-on target. On my mark fire everything…. shoot!"

The Thunderlord roared and the decks heaved as stacked ranks of macroweapons let fly. Turbolasers, missiles barrages, Macrocannons, Grav-projectors, plasma annihilators and bombardment cannons lit up, flinging out a torrent of destruction. The Barrage smote the Fra'al cruiser across her rear, slamming into her shields with overwhelming force. The Hexagonal craft was well-protected but the Thunderlord was at point-blank range and had diverted reserve power to her guns.

The shields blew out in the first wave and the subsequent barrage raked her aft with deadly force. Shells breached compartments, grav-blasts crumpled energy conduits into scrap, turbolasers sliced open her drives, missiles exploded in power relays and rivers of plasma melted whole sections into slag. Twisted alien bodies were sucked screaming into the void, as the ship was struck, her stern ripped to shreds. The cruiser was wounded grievously and broke off her attack on the Hundred Centuries as she turned to engage the new threat.

"We hit her hard!" Hodd cried in elation.

"Not hard enough," Erathor growled, "Bring us to port, hurry before they get in behind us!"

The crew leapt to obey but Hodds called up, "The Hundred Centuries signals they have lost all weapons and shields… Brother-Commander Inater requests permission to ram the enemy and take them with him."

"Denied," Erathor spat, "Tell them to cut power and disengage. Pretend to be a hole in space and live to fight another day."

"Erathor…" Hodds said as he prepared a counter-argument.

But Erathor cut him off, "There's no point, she can't make any difference, not anymore."

Hodds nodded and turned back to the helm but Erathor knew it was his fault, he had sacrificed the Hundred Centuries for his strategy and he would bear the consequences. In the Hololith the Fra'al were coming along the portside, burning hard to get behind them. The Thunderlord was turning hard but the Battlebarge was no dainty waif, she was a colossus of the void, made to hammer through anything in her path with sheer brute force. Manoeuvrability was not among her assets.

The portside gundecks were firing but it was a paltry barrage, the guns took too long to reload and the few shots bounced off the Xenos' barriers like rain. In return Ethercannons spoke, disgorging lethal packets of energy. A battlebarge could shrug off a broadside of any equal vessel but these Xenos weapons cut through shields effortlessly and carved through the hull below. Now it was the humans who suffered, dying in droves as the deadly energy slashed into the ship and plunged deeply within. Men who through themselves safe behind thick armour died screaming as alien blasts bored through deck after deck. On the bridge the gravity rocked, sending men sprawling and voices cried, "Hull breaches, decks one through seventy… Nine hundred dead in the portside gundecks… plasma leak deck thirty, seal it now or we lose half the ship… the secondary Chapel-barracks has been gutted, may the God-Emperor forgive this affront."

Erathor heard their distress and yelled, "Hold steady sons of the Imperium!"

On the barrage came and Hodds yelled, "They're pulling behind us!"

It was true, the Xenos were slipping into their rear arc, where the guns could not reach. The Thunderlord couldn't turn fast enough to target them and the Fra'al had a free shot at their stern. Erathor gripped the rail of his Command Dais tight and muttered, "We can't outmanoeuvre them and those Ethercannons have the spread of a broadside but they cut like lances… they'll tear us to pieces. "

He spent a second calculating strategies and saw in conventional battle they would lose. There was only one possibility, he would have to risk everything with the most desperate gamble. "Steer course 000 mark 000, let her run straight and true," Erathor ordered.

Hodds spun about in shock and cried, "What?! No, that will give them a free shot at our stern!"

"You heard me," Erathor barked irately.

"You're handing victory to the Xenos!" Hodds shouted.

But Erathor yelled, "I have given you an order and you will obey!"

Hodd's face with scorn but he was an Astartes, obedience was hammered into his soul. He relayed the orders and Erathor watched as the Thunderlord accelerated in a straight line. The Fra'al turned to follow, trailing her wake and the Ethercannons ripped across the Battlebarge's stern, tearing armoured buttresses away and smashing thrusters to slag.

The bridge heaved as Hodds cried, "We're taking fire!"

"Hold course," Erathor ordered.

Hodds barked, "We're losing engine power, one more hit and we lose helm control."

Erathor's eyes were fixed on the Hololith and he saw the Fra'al following them exactly. He drew in a breath and ordered, "Set prow torpedoes for thirty-second burn, timed delay explosion: two minutes."

"But that won't get them clear," Hodds barked, "We'll run over our own torpedoes."

"Do it," Erathor snarled, "Launch on my command… mark! Now pull up hard, full dorsal elevation, fire ventral thrusters and open drop-pod tubes. Climb, climb for all you're worth!"

In the hololith the torpedoes shot forth, burning hard for thirty seconds before cutting power and drifting on inertia. The Thunderlord's damaged superstructure groaned as her prow rose, climbing laboriously out of the horizontal. Slowly she pulled up, so damned slowly, but with barely a score of metres to spare her keel slipped past the torpedoes and they fell behind. The Fra'al weren't so lucky, slow to respond and not seeing the danger they sailed on, ploughing straight into the drifting torpedoes.

Erathor had timed it to perfection and the warheads exploded just as they made contact. Six shining spheres of plasma erupted across the Battlecrusier's prow, destroying everything behind. The Fra'al ship shuddered as her bow was obliterated, plasma gushing through her compartments like a river. Fires erupted throughout her interior as the damage spread, screaming Xenos choking on smoke and burning alive as the flames spread out of control. Stricken to the heart and bleeding flames from every hatch the battlecruiser rolled over, spinning into a death twirl she would never recover from.

Cheers erupted across the Thunderlord's bridge, mortals yelling in joy at the sight and Hodds breathed out, "Ship-kill… I don't believe it."

Erathor let out a sigh of relief and let go of the railing as he ordered, "Secure the ship, all hands to damage control efforts. Contact Grendel squadron and see if they need assitance. And Hodds…"

"Yes Erathor?" Hodds asked.

"Never again question me in battle," Erathor uttered firmly.

Hodds paused slightly, then his head rose as he accepted, "Aye… Captain."


	11. Chapter 11

**Choice and Consequences**

The Kroot came at him with its weapon jabbing forward at lightning speed. The blow was inhumanly fast, driven by Xenos sinews and alien muscles it would have ripped the heart out of any mortal man. But Watch-Sergeant Itzaal was not mortal. He twisted aside with eye-watering speed and the jagged knife on the end of the Xenos' rifle merely scored over his blackened breastplate, leaving a silver groove over his hearts where bare Ceramite was exposed. Itzaal fell back, swinging his Macuahuitl hand over hand before him, the prismatic blades on either end of the long haft casting rainbows as he wove a web of defence.

The Kroot paused as its attack was blocked and crouched low, its beak clacking in anticipation of the kill. Itzaal reviled its offensive visage, the crude mockery of the perfect human form. All aliens were an affront to the glorious Sun-Emperor but this one was especially vile. Its thin limbs were covered with festering sores and rancid blood wept from the cracks in its joints. Its leathery skin was mottled like mould and the long braids hanging from its scalp writhed like living tentacles. Even its features were wrong, the beak as sharp as a razor and it had too many eyes. Kroot were a genically adaptive race but this was not natural, the rancid stench of Chaos seeped out of it like soured milk.

Itzaal carefully paced right, keeping the Kroot in his eye line at all times. His face was pale and angular, bearing the hallmarks of Corax's blood, and his oiled hair and iris' were pitch black. His armour was the same shade, utterly black save for his left arm which was shining silver and his right pauldron, that bore the feline icon of the Smoke-Jaguars Chapter. In his hands was a long stave, flattened at either end and lined by prismatic blades that rippled like water as he weaved them through the air. His Macuahuitl, brought from Copan XII, it was his favoured weapon and he would never be parted from it.

Around the combatants the Kroot village burned, the high trees obscured by smoke and fire. Screams and shots arose, human and alien as the Deathwatch Kill-team laid waste to this Xenos nest. Destruction rained down as specialised weapons found nowhere else in the galaxy were unleashed, artefacts that were death for anyone other than the Deathwatch to wield. Yet the fiercest violence was at the heart of the village, where flashes of unlight revealed the Warp at work, their unwelcome allies wielding powers even the Ordo Xenos would baulk to use.

Itzaal put it from his mind as he stalked right, his awareness narrowing to a laser-like focus. He felt the wind on his face, and the crunching of roots under his boots. He felt the blood pumping through his veins, the blessings of the Sun-Emperor unto his flesh, and the pounding of his hearts rang in his ears. His eyes saw only the foe, tensed and ready to spring and he knew the moment of truth was at hand. Once more their blades would pass and this time only one would survive.

Suddenly the Kroot leapt into motion. There was no bunching of muscles, no hint of motion, it merely pounced with inhuman swiftness and the blow simply was. Itzaal however was ready and his speed was Transhuman. He swung his Macuahuitl upwards, the broadhead catching the rifle-blade and knocking it out of the way. The Kroot blinked in surprise but before it could respond the other end of the stave caught it in the groin and the prismatic blades opened its flesh from hip to larynx. With one sure strike Itzaal disembowelled the alien and stepped aside to let it collapse lifelessly into the brush.

Silence fell, the screams of the battle dying out and Itzaal knew the heirs of the Sun-Emperor were victorious. He drew in a breath and released his tension, letting his hearts slow in his chest, calming his humours for what was to come. The battle was over and now the rituals must be observed. He dropped to one knee and reached out his hand to wet his fingers in alien blood then he lifted it to his lips and placed it on his tongue. This was the way of the Smoke Jaguars, to taste the foe's blood and learn their weaknesses and vulnerabilities through the consumption of flesh. Itzaal oft wished to be among his own kin, but that was not for him to decide. He had chosen to join the Deathwatch and the consequences of that were his to bear. All he could do was honour his Chapter's traditions as best he could. Unfortunately this time he tasted only fetid corruption, the vile touch of mutation coating his tongue with vileness.

Itzaal gaged on the rotten flavour and spat upon the ground, emptying his mouth of the taint. He wiped his tongue with his palm, and made a 'Blaargh,' noise.

From nearby a merry laugh issued forth, "Ha! Did the taste offend you?!"

Itzaal looked up and saw another Marine approaching. He had a broad face, ever ready to laugh or make merry, a rare thing among the Deathwatch. At his hip was a curved scimitar and his right shoulder bore the mark of the Crimson Castellans. This was Mellios, a warrior of fierce skill and ardour who Itzaal counted a friend and comrade in arms.

Itzaal stood up and said, "Tainted. Chaos has touched this land."

"The reports were accurate," Mellios sighed, "Good job the Grey knights tagged along."

Itzaal grimaced at that and muttered, "Our honoured allies await us."

"Try saying that with less rancour next time," Mellios scoffed.

Itzaal said nothing as he set off, heading for the heart of the village. As they walked he saw the other members of their Kill-team, cleansing the village of taint. There was Gunta, blood of the Iron Lords, marching from house to house and clearing them with a shot from a wide-bore frag cannon. Here was Consulis, blood of the Blood Ravens, his Power Sword shining as he cleaved injured Kroot in twain. There was Mapphon, blood of the Carcharodon Astra, who was dragging mewling cubs out of their hiding places and decapitating them with a growling chainsword. No consideration was given to youth or infirmity, this den of Xenos' had been condemned by the Ordo Xenos and Malleus and the Chamber Militant would see it done.

Itzaal left them behind as the pair marched to the heart of the village, where five warriors in silver armour knelt in prayer. Their plate was a marvel of psionic art, fashioned with reverent devotion and thrice-blessed against the touch of Daemons. Their plates bore icons of unknown providence save for a sword laid across an open book. Their polearms shimmered with power and each breastplate bore an armoured casing, containing a book none save their order could read. These were the Grey Knights, sole guardians of the secret lore of Titan, the Sun-Emperor's dedicated Daemon hunters and His last gift unto mankind before he ascended the Golden Throne. His last hope to deny the Gods of Chaos.

One of them stood up as the pair approached and Itzaal was put back by the aura of power surrounding him. His features were broad and plain and his head covered by a leather cowl but that was incidental compared to the shining power in his blue eyes. Even though he was no Psyker Itzaal could feel this one's purity radiating, his impenetrable halo of sanctity a barrier against everything foul and corrupt. He wore his righteousness as a cloak and nothing of the Warp could sully his soul.

Itzaal stopped and swallowed slightly but put on a brave face and said, "Hail, son of Titan. We come to settle…"

The Grey Knight cut him off saying, "I have no use for your pretty words. I am Justicar Eriel and you shall submit to my judgement."

Itzaal had no knowledge of the Grey Knight's hierarchy but he wasn't about to be pushed around by anyone and hissed, "You have no authority to command me."

Mellios added, "The Deathwatch are exempt from your mind-wiping, you are not stealing our memories."

"I care nothing for your secrets but in matters of Heresy my word is law," Eriel proclaimed.

Itzaal's gore rose and he gripped his weapon tightly as he growled, "You accuse us of Heresy?!"

Eriel's eyes narrowed and he uttered, "I do, the Ordo Xenos has become corrupted. You shall submit to the Ordo Malleus at once."

Itzaal took a step backwards and lifted his weapon as he snarled, "The Ordo Xenos is subordinate to none, you have no authority over us!"

Eriel took up his polearm and growled, "Do not test me, without any of your pet witch-Librarians you are no match for five Grey Knights. I have uncovered an attempt to hide treason most foul. The Ordo Xenos did not condemn this village to stop a threat but to bury their crimes!"

Mellios drew his blade and scoffed, "And we are supposed to take your word for this?!"

"No," Eriel spat, "See with your own eyes."

The Grey Knight stepped aside and Itzaal beheld a sword driven into the ground. Surrounded by the praying Grey Knights the vile thing quivered, its blade jagged and marred by swirls and blinking eyeballs. It oozed corruption, the vileness of the warp made manifest and staining the ground black. A shimmering aura of purity held the corruption at bay, projected by the praying Grey Knights but without it Itzaal was sure his flesh would be writhing in protest against the raw filth of the Warp.

"This is what corrupted the Kroot?" Itzaal breathed in horror.

"Yes," Eriel uttered, "This blade contains the Daemon K'erietahata. The creature is known to us, it was defeated millennia ago by an Inquisitorial Conclave and sealed away in the vaults of the Ordo Xenos… against our stringent protests. Someone removed it from those vaults and brought it here with a foul purpose, someone with access to the Ordo Xenos."

"But… but who would do such a thing?" Itzaal gasped.

"Ask your comrade," Eriel growled, "Guilt drips off his aura like sweat."

There was the slightest stiffening at Itzaal's side, the smallest intake of breath but it was enough. The reaction was as great as an admission of guilt and Itzaal knew the accusation was true. He knew it in his bones. The Grey Knight spoke truth and Heresy walked at his side. Itzaal turned with dread horror and breathed, "Mellios, what have you done?!"

Mellios looked aghast, his face pale and harrowed. He looked like he would protest but he retained enough honour to speak true and confessed, "Only what I was ordered to do."

"Why?!" Itzaal growled, "Why would you let loose Chaos?!"

Mellios took as step back and implored, "The Tau empire grows too great a threat. Their numbers increase with every race they absorb, creating legions of Xenos. We cannot permit them to continue, we must break their precious unity. Our efforts to corrupt the Tau have failed, their souls are insignificant but their allies are a different story. If we could contaminate those races then we could shatter the Tau Empire. Chaos could end the Tau without us firing a single shot! "

"You would utilise the weapons of the Archenemy," Eriel accused, "You embrace the forbidden creed of Xanthism!"

Itzaal pressed, "You couldn't have done this alone, who else is involved?!"

Mellios stammered, "I can't tell you, their names are forbidden."

"You protect Heretical renegades," Itzaal snarled, "Dupes who play with forces they cannot control. Look about and see the fruits of your labours. These tainted Kroot would never break an empire. Your plan failed!"

Yet Mellios argued, "The plan could have worked, it just proceeded too quickly. We chose too strong a Daemon, its taint became obvious too quickly. A subtler one could worm its way into the heart of the Tau empire, spreading corruption far and wide before the first hint of mutation became apparent."

Eriel stomped forward and growled, "You shall give me the names of these Traitorous Inquisitors."

Mellios backed up a step and cried, "Itzaal, you won't let him kill me will you?!"

Itzaal hefted his Macuahuitl and growled, "No, I won't let him kill you. I shall do it myself."

Mellios' eyes widened and he gasped, "My friend, I don't want to fight you."

"What you want is dust in the wind," Itzaal snarled, "What you have chosen is upon you."

Mellios swallowed as he waved his sword back and forth between the pair and protested, "You can't blame me, it wasn't my fault. The Inquisitors, they made me do it. How could I say no to them?!"

"A child bleats of fault and blame," Itzaal hissed, "A man accepts the consequences of his own choices. You chose to spend the coin of Heresy and now your debt is due."

Mellios' face hardened and he growled, "So be it."

Suddenly he attacked, sword swinging for Itzaal's face. Eriel moved to intercept but Itzaal was faster. He leapt to meet his friend in mid-air, Macuahuitl spinning. Mellios' sword wove around the shaft and darted forward but the angle was poor and the point only carved a slice out of the Smoke Jaguar's face. Blood flowed freely but in return the Prismatic blades sliced through the air, aiming for Mellios' throat. An arm moved to block but the rainbow daggers cleaved through it with no effort at all and swept on to tear out the windpipe of the Traitor.

Itzaal landed on his feet and staggered forward two paces as he recovered. His hearts burned with ire, the weight of his deeds heavy upon his hearts but he refused to yield. He had chosen to end the Traitor by his own hand and he would not shirk from the consequences of his act. He turned to see Mellios kneeling in the dirt, his lifeblood fountaining over his front as he swayed drunkenly. Eriel was looming over him and placed one hand upon his skull. There was a flash in those piercing blue eyes then he lifted his palm and let Mellios drop, dead before his face touched the ground.

Itzaal wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, knowing he would bear that scar evermore and questioned, "You have the names?"

Eriel nodded as he said, "Inquisitor Lords of Xenos and Malleus both, a terrible crime indeed."

"One that shall be punished," Itzaal swore.

Eriel looked at him and said, "You intend to lead the cleansing yourself?"

"Give me the names and Ordo Xenos shall clear up its own mess," Itzaal promised, "You concern yourself with Malleus."

Eriel nodded but asked, "The Daemonsword?"

"Take it," Itzaal stated, "Lock it away on Titan where none will ever look upon it again."

"So shall it be," Justicar Eriel vowed, "A great cleansing is coming and many lives will be ended by my Nemesis blade."

Itzaal knelt by his dead friend and dipped his fingers in the spreading blood. He licked the rich iron stain off his digits, tasting the flesh of Mellios and then he uttered grimly, "My soul burns for vengeance and my blades thirst for the blood of Traitors. The Inquisition led my friend into Heresy and they are about to learn they cannot escape the consequences of their acts."


	12. Chapter 12

**Valle Vitae**

Nolaro awoke to pain, his body aching from scalp to toe and the feeling of broken bones moving freely within his chest. The damage to his frame was extensive but his chest burned hot where his Genhanced body pieced itself back together, the gifts of Corvus Corax keeping him alive where any mortal man would have died. His Mark IV plate blared alarums into his ear, but he ignored them. He didn't need to be told how bad the situation was.

Nolaro's bones screamed as he lifted his head but he overrode the pain with force of will, he had no time to rest. He looked about the ruined hold of the Stormbird and saw calamity writ in every inch. The dropship was smashed, its fuselage twisted and warped and there was a massive hole in the side where a ground to air missile had impacted the craft's flank. Black-clad bodies were strewn everywhere, noble Legionnaires of the XIXth laid low by the vilest of treacheries. Grief whelmed up within him but he pushed it back, his life was far from safe and time was running out. The rear of the compartment was filled with flickering flames and smokey soot, the fuel lines had been severed and in minutes this troop bay would be consumed by an inferno.

Nolaro forced his knees under him, his frame screaming in protest all the while. His armour was battered and scored, much of its black enamel sheared off by the crash and craters peppered its front from bolt-round impacts. He staggered to his feet and fought through the purple spots in his eyes as he took up his bolter, an old Phobos pattern, and saw he had only two magazines left, hardly reassuring. Nolaro's vision blurred as his armour struggled to find a vox-net, but there was no sign of one, the Raven Guard's communications were awash with jamming.

Resorting to basic measures Nolaro called, "Anyone still alive?"

From the front of the troop bay a gruff voice called, "Sergeant Nolaro? It's Damolos."

Then a sly voice called out, "Brother Engar reporting, we thought you were dead."

Nolaro's head was spinning but he focused and saw two Brothers closing, one in obsolete Mark II plate and with a grinding chainaxe in hand, ripped from the grip of a Traitorous World Eater. The other wore Mark IV and was slighter in build, he was hard to focus upon like he walked in shadow at all times. His plate was scored by vicious slashes and he boasted a shattered left pauldron, broken by specialised ammunition that had cut through ceramite with ease. Neither one was from his squad but there hadn't been time for orderly embarkation. The Stormbird had grabbed whoever it could and blasted away, fleeing for high orbit. They hadn't made it, the air had been filled with enemy fighters and ground fire had been intense, knocking evac craft out of the sky in droves.

"This everybody?" Nolaro asked.

Damolos nodded forlornly, "We're all that's left."

"The pilots?"

Engar sighed, "Died on impact."

It was horrific news, on any other day a calamity, but today it was merely one more disaster in an endless litany. "There's no point waiting to die in an explosion, follow me," he ordered.

He led them to the gaping hole in the side of the Stormbird and peered into a vision of hell beyond. Everywhere across the Urgall Depression explosions rose, the crump of artillery consuming acres of ground at a time. Thunder battered his faceplate and on the far horizon a mushroom cloud arose, from an atomonic bomb unleashed at close quarters. The sky was filled with fleeing dropships, racing for the heavens as they were chased by missiles, flak and enemy interceptors. A few made it out but they were scant in number, the vast majority were dying in flaming contrails as they were swatted from the sky.

In the distance hordes of Transhumans clashed, thousands dying before his eyes in oceans of blood. From afar he witnessed the last stand of the Raven Guard, Iron Hands and Salamanders. From one side the World Eaters, Death Guard, Emperor's Children and Sons of Horus advanced, decimating all in their path. They drove hard into the ragged survivors, pushing them against the solid bastions of the Word Bearers, Night Lords, Iron Warriors and Alpha Legion. The hammer against the anvil, a classic manoeuvre as deadly as it was merciless. This was Istavaan V, the supposed site of the rebellion's defeat, instead it would go down in history forevermore as the Dropsite Massacre.

Nolaro felt the ache of betrayal grip his hearts, disbelief and outrage drowning his soul in torment. This was treachery unprecedented in human history, a crime that would ring down the ages. That four Legions could turn their backs on the Emperor, beloved by all, had seemed insanity but that half the force sent to punish the rebels would join them was unthinkable. The Xth, VIIIth and XIXth Legions were paying for their lack of imagination with blood, cut down by shell, bolt, las and chainaxe. Here and there knots of resistance held out but they were isolated and few, their defiance would be brief.

Nolaro could hardly think but his discipline held, he had to remain functional or die. He dared the vox and transmitted, "Burning wings, the valley of death, call of the flock." It was an old prison-code from Kiavhar, one of the Raven Guard's defunct private cyphers. Their comm-protocols were probably broken, but few would understand their shibboleth tongue, or so Nolaro hoped.

He had sent out a brief report of their crash, dire situation and a request for guidance. In return the vox crackled and a distant voice called, "The stars bleed."

Engar translated, "The battle is lost."

"Swift winds, high skies."

Damolos translated, "Breakout and scatter, go to ground and regroup elsewhere."

"Knives in the dark."

Nolaro said, "No support, no rescue possible."

"A King falls."

"No…" Damolos breathed.

But Nolaro said flatly, "A primarch has died."

"Who?" Damolos cried, "Not Corax?"

"We don't know, we may be fortunate and it proves to be Vulkan or Ferrus Manus," Engar protested.

"What a day, to wish a Brother Legion loses its Primarch instead of ours," Damolos lamented.

Nolaro shared their anguish but snapped, "It doesn't matter, we can't do anything save run. We must head west-north-west, break through the perimeter and flee into the ash wastes."

Engar peered in the direction of the distant fortification and commented, "There's a Night Lord bunker right in our path."

"You would prefer to assault Iron Warriors in an entrenched position?" Nolaro rejoined.

"Night Lords it is," Damolos agreed hastily.

Nolaro led them away from the crash site and across the grey dust of the Urgall Depression. They kept low and did their best to go unnoticed. They were on the very edge of the battlefield and the traitors were focused mainly on the ongoing slaughter, but the danger was no less. If they were spotted hordes of enemies would descend and the trio would die swiftly. There was little to no cover but the XIXth excelled at stealth and they passed unnoticed, closing on a grey ferrocrete bunker marked with the icon of the winged skull. Dropped straight from orbit to create a cage around the Dropsite, a tactic the Iron Warriors favoured but one employed by all legions to a lesser extent, even the VIIIth. Before the drop assault it had seemed a prudent measure, to keep the rebels contained, but in hindsight it had been a deadly trap.

Nolaro led them as close as he dared and crouched to whisper, "If they see us we're done for, we'll have to do this one slow and quiet. Use all your skills to pass unseen, approach from three directions and…" His words were cut short as a flash of light erupted from a firing slit and Heavy Bolter rounds hammered forth. Nolaro and Engar hit the dirt instantly but Damolos took a round to the shoulder and went down in a spray of blood.

Another stream of Heavy Bolter rounds erupted, then another, three heavy weapons honing in on their position and chewing the ground to shreds around them. Dirt spraying his faceplate Nolaro snapped off a round in return but the distance was too great and his bolt merely hit grey Ferrocrete. More rounds inundated them and Engar shouted, "We're pinned!"

Nolaro snapped back, "I see that, prepare to charge!"

"Charge into that?!" Engar retorted, "We won't make it six steps."

"If we stay we die anyway. I'd rather die on my feet than on my belly!"

Engar concurred, "No argument here, let's do it."

"On the count of three," Nolaro , "One, two…"

Before he could finish the torrent of rounds cut off, stopping without warning. Nolaro was confused by the cessation but his bewilderment grew as he heard bolter fire from within the bunker, followed by the roaring of chainswords, hissing of energy weapons and cries of anger and surprise. Someone was inside the bunker, someone was fighting the Night Lords. For a heart-stopping moment Nolaro dreamed Corvus Corax had come to rescue them but as the fight raged on he knew it wasn't, a Primarch wouldn't take this long to kill his foes.

Nolaro kept his head down as the fight raged and called, "Damolos, you still breathing?"

"If I say no can I die in peace?" came the reply.

Nolaro was pleased to hear his voice and said, "Can you fight?"

"I lost an arm but thankfully I was holding my axe in the other hand," Damolos stated determinedly.

Suddenly the sound of fighting stopped and Nolaro looked up to see a hazy figure waving them over from the bunker's hatch. Warily he stood up but no ambush was sprung so he led them closer, wondering who had delivered them. He suspected a team of the Mor Deythan, the XIXth's elite infiltrators, or maybe even a Shadow Killer, those singular Brothers afflicted by Sable Brand and sent out to fight alone. Yet as they closed he saw something far more shocking.

Standing in the doorway was a lone Astartes. He was carrying a steaming plasma pistol in one hand and the other bore a crackling Lightning Claw. His plate was covered with smoky tints of darkness and adorned by feral fetishes while curved animal claws hung on a thin cord around his neck, clacking in the wind. The faceplate was fashioned into a feline skull, long fangs hanging from his snouted helm like a sabre-toothed tiger and his backpack boasted a spike topped by a human skull. A skinned face was pinned to the left pauldron, while the right bore the icon of a winged skull. He was a Legion Moritat, an VIIIth Legion assassin: a Night Lord.

Nolaro's bolter shot up but the Moritat raised his weapons and shouted, "Don't shoot, I'm on your side!"

Nolaro's aim didn't waver as he barked, "Why should I believe you?!"

The Moritat replied, "Because I hate Konrad Curze and I've always hated this wretched Legion. I only signed up to get off Nostromo, I would have done anything to get away from that hellhole but the Legion was no better. Nothing but haughty gang-lords and egotistical thugs. That's why I became a Moritat, to keep as far away as possible. If that's not enough, consider that I also I just killed a squad of my own to save you."

Damolos raised his one remaining arm, chainaxe spinning as he spat, "This is a trick. One Legionnaire stays true while all others betray us. You must think us fools!"

The Moritat protested, "I swear I didn't know what was going to happen. I operate alone and outside the chain of command. The first I knew of the plan was when my Legion started firing on you."

Nolaro wasn't convinced and said, "You may speak true, but I can't take that risk. Sorry, but I'm going to have to kill you."

Yet the Moritat replied, "You pull that trigger and the Iron Warrior's artillery will level this whole grid-sector. See I'm currently voxing a false all-clear signal. So long as I keep transmitting we will have an evacuation corridor to channel your Legion Brothers through. I can't keep it up for long though, the codes change frequently. In fourteen minutes the codes update and I can't access those. So choose quickly."

Engar hissed, "This is a trick, kill him."

"It's me or your Brothers," the Moritat stated bluntly.

Nolaro dropped his aim and said, "Leave him alive… for now."

"Good choice," the Moritat affirmed, "Thirteen minutes left."

Nolaro opened his vox and called, "The valley of life, by the Stars of Charon, the Gloaming." It was a call to all XIXth Legionnaires that an evac corridor was open, directions and that time was running out. Hopefully someone was still alive out there to hear his call. He had a brief chance to take control of the situation and salvage something from this debacle. If he could save one Brother it would be worth it, a few squads would be a miracle on this black day.

Nolaro turned to the Moritat and said, "We hold this position for twelve minutes then run like hell. What's your plan for surviving in the wastes?"

"Don't have one," the Night Lord confessed, "I was trusting you did."

"We'll deal with that when we have to," Nolaro groaned, "Looks like we're stuck together, so what do we call you?"

"The name is Sedaxus," the Night Lord said, "But I am better known as the Smoke Jaguar."


	13. Chapter 13

**The hardest choices**

933.M41

"You cannot stand against me!" the voice cried aloud with a thousand tongues. It was vile and putrid, dripping with malice and scorn. The raw syllables provoked a visceral revulsion in the soul, making hairs stand up all over the body and leaving the feeling of clammy sweat dripping down the back of the neck. To hear that voice was to feel dirty inside, soiled to the core as if one's soul had been sullied by the caresses of a vile molester. It was the essence of Chaos, an echo of Nurgle's will and it polluted the world by existing.

Again the voice cried, "Nothing can withstand the Grandfather!" Reality shuddered as a thousand tongues spoke but he did not listen. He closed his ears to the blandishments of Chaos and focused all his power upon the burning glyph in his hand. He was a towering Transhuman, clad in esoteric armour that proclaimed his status as a battle-psyker of the Librarius. Lightning bolts and twin-tailed comets adorned his plate, constellations picked out in chains of jewels across his hearts and in his right hand was a staff topped by an astrolabe. His face was weary from a lifetime of confronting horrors, but his expression was defiant and his will was set in stone. He was Echeb, Chief Librarian of the Storm Heralds and the Spirit of the Storm and he was battling a Daemon of Chaos.

Before him an abomination writhed. It could not be ascribed any categorisation of being, no phenotype or species, for it had none. It was blubbering mass of flesh sprouting hundreds of writhing tentacles. Grey fronds waved from a central mass, thick with blubber and spotted with sores and pustules. It reeked of decay and rot, oozing toxic filth that stained the ground and left it forevermore tainted. Disease wafted off this abomination, like the stench of a gangrenous wound and one would retch to smell it. But the worst thing about it was that it was covered in mouths, human mouths opening over every inch that wasn't coated by sores, a thousand tongues to speak lies and spread its corruption far and wide.

"I am Gar'kinda!" the Daemon roared, "Beloved of the Grandfather, his emissary and town-crier! You are nothing compared to that, nothing!"

Echeb refused to heed its words as he yelled, "Exite inpuratus bestia!"

The Daemon recoiled from the abjuration, the words striking it like hammer-blows. Its body convulsed and the tentacles shook like leaves in a gale as Echeb sought to banish it back to the warp. The Daemon was stuck most cruelly but was not finished; it redoubled its efforts, throwing lashing tentacles at the Librarian. A hundred spears struck for his hearts but they rebounded off the glowing symbol in the air between them. A glyph of banishment sprouting from Echeb's left fist, burning in the air between them. Echeb was left physically unharmed but his mind felt every blow, the strikes communicated to his spirit via the enchantment he was employing. The Sigil of Astraea was a potent ward but it skirted the line between psychic art and heretical sorcery, Echeb was risking more than his life by casting such incantations, he was imperilling his soul. Yet it had to be done, he knew of nothing else that could defeat so powerful a Daemon.

"You shall die here and your flesh shall become a breeding ground for the diseases of Nurgle!" Gar'kinda bellowed.

But Echeb channelled all his awesome power into the sigil as he invoked, "Imperator, ejectus incimus!"

The Daemon reeled back as its flesh began to dissolve, falling apart before the banishment. Its nature was more psychic than material and the touch of warp-power was its bane. Its tentacles began to fall off it but yet it bellowed, "You shall pay little worm, a million years of torment is only the start of the tortures that await you after death!"

Echeb stood firm as he cried, "Egomet mitto vos procol!"

The words of the banishment ripped into Gar'kinda and the Daemon's flesh exploded, a putrid shower of filth painting the walls with gore. Echeb felt splatters of its rancid bile rain upon his armour and knew it was one last attempt to infect his flesh. He burned them off with a thought as the Daemon's essence retreated into the Warp, the Neverborn filth abandoning its meat-puppet and falling back into the nightmare of the Immaterium. Echeb had done it; he had defeated the Daemon and held the line against the horror, though he knew it was but a single battle in a never-ending war.

Wearily he dispelled the Sigil of Astraea and turned to take in his surroundings. He beheld a temple, a standard Imperial chapel fitted out in a typical manner but now defiled. The devotional images on the walls had been altered to show scenes of madness, the faithful painted with diseased flesh and suppurating wounds. Their rapturous expressions subtly altered to become the delusional madness of infection. Holy icons were smeared with dung and double-headed eagles dripped with pus. Beautiful tapestries had been replaced with banners sown of human skin, psychic echoes telling him the victims had still been alive when they were skinned. And the altar was drenched in blood, countless sacrifices resulting in the summoning he had just defeated.

Echeb's knees felt weak as he beheld his victory. He had been part of a campaign to put down a pitiful rebellion on Cibus when he sensed the confluence of warp-energies in the city of Jalhi and rushed here with a single squad, only to arrive too late. The summoning had been completed seconds before he burst through the doors and the Daemon had sent forth its minions against him. Hundreds of black-clad cultists rising to confront the Space Marines. Echeb had left the squad to deal with them as he confronted the Daemon directly but saw the battle had been fierce. Hundreds of bodies lay in repose, torn apart by bolter and knife but nine Transhuman bodies lay amongst them, overwhelmed by the sheer number of foes.

Sorrow filled Echeb's soul but he saw one yet drew breath. A Brother named Orath, standing among the dead with a Thunder Hammer in hand. He looked drunk, swaying back and forth with a swoon. His Mark VI armour was scored in many places and enemy blood stained his blue heraldry a deep purple from head to toe. The ferocity of the fight was obvious but he yet stood, a feat Echeb held to be remarkable. Truly this Orath was a superlative warrior.

Echeb stepped down from the dais and said, "It is over."

Orath's beaked helm turned slowly as he asked, "The Daemon is banished?"

Echeb nodded slowly as he stated, "Yes though the cost was high. Your Squad-brothers…"

"Died in glory," Orath intoned with a hint of solemn pride, "Sergeant Nimor fought like the heroes of old, taking twelve fatal wounds before he fell. He entrusted his Thunder Hammer to me with his dying breath."

"An epic feat," Echeb sighed, "A shame that none shall ever know."

Orath started in shock, "What?! You would deny them glory in death, their names should be inscribed on the Rock of Heroes!"

Echeb heard the distress in his voice and lamented, "Alas this battle must never be celebrated. The filth of the Warp broke through the walls of reality. Daemons walked this world under our watch, word of this cannot be allowed to spread."

Orath's head lowered as he whispered, "I… I understand. This temple must be razed and the deeds committed here buried. We cannot allow any taint to linger."

Echeb looked upon the Marine with pity and sighed, "So naive… I'm sorry Orath but you do not understand the scale of the threat. This whole city must be burned to the ground."

"What?!" Orath yelled, "Why?!"

Echeb gestured about him and said, "Recall our entrance, use your perfect memory and count the foes. When we entered there were three hundred and nine cultists present, yet I count only three hundred and eight bodies. One escaped, one cultist fled our wrath. He is out there right now, hiding among the citizens."

"One Heretic?" Orath breathed, "You would level a city of a million people to kill one Heretic?!"

"I would," Echeb murmured, "He carries the seed of the Warp within him and will find fertile ground for his lies among the masses. He cannot be allowed to escape."

"So call Captain Jossat," Orath urged, "He has Fourth Company with him. They could secure the city, root out this lone Heretic and slay him. You can't kill a million people to ensure the death of one!"

Sadly Echeb sighed, "Possibly but he may yet slip our net... No, the price of failure is too great to leave matters to chance, the loss of this entire planet would only be the start. Every mortal who resides here must be put to the sword, there is no other way."

"No," Orath growled.

Echeb blinked in surprise, "No?"

"I won't let you," Orath snarled, "You speak of killing a million innocents for fear of what might happen… I won't allow it!"

"You defy my order?!" Echeb hissed as anger rose within him.

"We are the Emperor's Finest," Orath snarled, "We are the Champions and defenders of mankind. We do not massacre innocents; it strikes a blow at everything we stand for. This is not what my squad-Brothers died for. There is a line between heroic battle and wanton slaughter, between Heresy and innocence. A line we do not cross. We are the Storm Heralds; we do not do things like this!"

"I do," Echeb snapped, "I do unthinkable things so others do not have to. I coat my hands with blood so Brothers like you can remain noble. I have slaughtered innocents beyond count, because it must be done, because the risk of a single slip is too terrible to contemplate. Someone has to make the hardest choices and if you won't then I will."

"Fourth Company won't follow such an order," Orath growled.

"They will if they believe they are killing Heretics," Echeb countered, "Tell them the masses are corrupted and they won't hesitate to pull the trigger."

"You would lie to them?!" Orath gasped, "You would paint the innocent as traitors and let our Brothers think they are committing honourable bloodshed?!"

"I've done it before," Echeb sniffed, "Coating vile deeds in the robes of righteousness, so the Brother's honour remains untarnished. The Librarius order is the Chapter's shield against dishonour; we protect your nobility but cannot share it."

"Then I shall stop you!" Orath yelled as he hefted his hammer.

"Oh, Orath…" Echeb sighed, "You are noble and pure-hearted, but you have no way to stop me."

As they had been arguing Echeb had been gathering his psychic power and a vicious telepathic lance stabbed through Orath's mind, breaking through his mental walls with ease. Echeb effortlessly bypassed the defences, he had helped build them after all, and silenced Orath's conscious mind, sending him into a stupor. There was no bellowing cry of defiance, no furious charge into the face of death. Orath simply collapsed to the ground, dropping the Thunder Hammer as he lay unconscious. Echeb sighed at the sight and said, "Alas poor Orath, better you had died in battle than live to see this."

With a moment to spare Echeb opened his vox and called, "Strike Cruiser Pax Mortis, this is Master Echeb. Fourth Captain, are you there?"

A voice came back, "Jossat here, report status."

Echeb replied, "Captain, we have dealt with the incident but have suffered casualties, we require an Apothecary at once. There is more: I have uncovered a moral threat. Reinforcements are urgently needed, recall all squads and redeploy at once."

"Explain," Jossat barked.

A small voice protested at the back of Echeb's mind but he overrode it as he said, "The taint is far more wide-spread than we suspected. Jalhi city has been subverted by a vile cult. Heresy spreads far and wide, under a mask of innocence.

"Confirm that," Jossat demanded, "Are all the citizens tainted?"

Lies spilled from Echeb's lips, "There can be no doubt, the entire city swears fealty to Chaos. Listen not to pleas of innocence, be fooled not by false protests of loyalty. Every living soul within must die before they can complete their foul machinations. Strike now before they sacrifice this planet to the Ruinous Powers."

"It shall be so," Jossat replied, "In the Emperor's name there shall be no mercy for Traitors."

"For the Emperor," Echeb intoned feeling bile at the back of his throat.

The vox snapped off and Echeb sagged. He had just broken every tenant of the Storm Heralds and precept they fought under. He had lied and deceived and sentenced innocents to death, all to prevent a greater tragedy. The weight of it was a burden upon his soul but he bore it stoically as he had done so many times before. He took responsibility so his Brothers did not have to, so they could hold themselves noble and pure. His honour sacrificed for theirs.

The deed had been done but that left one loose end. Echeb looked upon the fallen form of Orath and considered his fate. He had seen too much, that was certain, he had looked upon the darkest deeds of the Librarius and realised the hidden truths. The Librarius operated apart from their Brothers to prevent exactly such revelations, the fear and superstition the Initiates held psykers in helping close their eyes to the vile necessities that held back extinction. Orath had ripped that veil asunder and seen the truth, for this he should die. Yet he remained stalwart and true, a shining example of the virtues Echeb wished to protect. It was for Marines such as this Echeb acted, to keep them pure and unsullied. Plus he was a superlative warrior; such an asset was not easily cast aside. Yes, Orath deserved to live; but his memories were a problem.

Echeb began to see a way to resolve this. He could take Orath's memories and leave the warrior intact. Yet no simple mind-wipe would suffice. Orath had lost his squad-Brothers; he was the last survivor of the band. That would provoke questions and doubts; he would yearn to know what had happened to his kinsmen and would never let the matter lie. Orath would poke the absent memories until he found the truth, putting Echeb back into the same predicament. No, for this to work Echeb would have to scrub Orath's mind to the bedrock, erasing all experiences and deeds and formative moments. Orath would be left a blank slate, with no recall of his identity and deeds, yet with all his skills and combat-instincts left intact.

His will set Echeb knelt by the slumbering Orath and as doom fell upon the city on dark wings he placed his hand upon the noble warrior's helm and whispered, "Forget…"


	14. Chapter 14

**One Word**

001.M42

The council chamber rang with the dreary voices of pompous dignitaries. For hours they had waffled on, boring all within to tears and they seemed to be willing to keep on droning for hours more. In the high rafters of the Cathedral-like space choir-boys played jacks, thinking they passed unseen. In the back rows of the pews fat merchants snoozed with their chins buried in their chests while their mistresses preened in a complex dance of superiority. Minor lords and lesser generals skimmed data-slates in a pretence of important business, while in truth they were reading news of local sports teams and tawdry back-alley dramas. Nobody was listening to the speeches, save one.

Sitting on a dais in the centre of the auditorium Tithe-Legate Appbe watched the proceedings with interest. He was an aged scholar of a man with a bald scalp and a long beard. His robe was faded green and bore numerous symbols of the Administraum, set alongside the heraldry of the Macedoa Sector. The hierarchy of the Adeptus Terra was byzantine and convoluted, but for all intents and purposes Appbe ran the Administratum in this sector. Through a combination of authority, bribery, blackmail and sheer force of will all other functionaries feared his stern gaze. Yes, Appbe was the master of his own little demesne, but unfortunately not all he surveyed.

Appbe cast his gaze across the ring of chairs and saw his peers. Merchant princes, generals, heads of various institutions and Tech-Magi. These were the leaders of the Macedoa Sector, its ruling body of dignitaries. Each one of them commanded vast wealth and privilege, armies of servants and literal armies too. All of them equal in service to the Golden Throne and equal in the contempt they held for the common masses. All of them were shamelessly embezzling Imperial funds, greedily plundering the wealth of the sector even as the Cicatrix Maledictum split the galaxy in twain. None of them questioned this behaviour, in the heartlands of Segmentum Solar such behaviour was traditional and expected of rulers.

The local Cardinal finally fell silent and lowered himself into a seat. Into the fresh silence a gruff man snorted, "Finally he stops speaking, I thought I'd died and gone to a very dull hell." That was Lord Militant Bernas, de facto head of all armed forces in the Sector. Technically it was his duty to secure the God-Emperor's dominions, but he was spectacularly uninterested in the obligations of his office. His primary interest was in adding to the ever-growing number of chins that hung from his jowls.

Across from him a pinch-faced woman hissed, "No matter that, what are we going to do about Terra?" That was Jesset, speaker of the Chartist Captains, the Imperium's civilian fleet. She wore a long jacket with many medals of dubious authenticity and a powered wig that hung over her shoulders. She looked decadent and effete, and she was, but she was also the richest soul in the Sector.

"What of it?" Bernas scoffed, "Let Terra mind its own affairs while we mind ours."

Jesset retorted, "Terra's problems have a way of becoming our problems. We need to act."

Bernas snorted, "I can't remember the last time you acted. As always your solution is someone else should do something."

"You are the military, it's your job!" Jesset sneered.

"I know my job better than a jumped up dock-rat," Bernas scoffed.

Appbe gritted his teeth, knowing under Bernas' leadership a dozen worlds had been lost in the last solar year alone. These two represented all that was wrong with the Imperium, blind to the needs of the galaxy and interested only in their own advancement. True, Appbe had little interest in the lot of the common man either, but at least he saw the pillars of their society were crumbling. Someone had to do something and this lot were incapable, they were not the right people to save the galaxy.

He coughed loudly and declared, "My lords, we must take this seriously. The newly appointed Imperial Regent demands access to our sector assets and to draft our armies to his cause. His new Indomitus Crusade is voracious in its needs."

Bernas laughed out loud, "You believe that twaddle of a resurrected Primarch?! Ha, I knew you were dull-witted Appbe, but I never took you for gullible."

Jesset added, "Propaganda, pure propaganda. Terra thinks to dazzle us with a hallowed name."

"I assure you, the reports of Roboute Guilliman's return are genuine," Appbe protested.

But Bernas snorted, "Oh I'm sure they've found a very convincing look-a-like. Some Space Marine in glittery armour and platform soles, but it isn't him. Roboute Guilliman is forever locked in stasis on Macragge; all know it to be true."

Jesset agreed, "The Senatorum Imperiallis is pulling some elaborate con. It is not him."

Suddenly a crone-like voice interjected, "His identity is confirmed, but what matters is that we stop him." Appbe winced for that was Hachar, Grand Dame of the Inquisition and Mistress of the Sector Ordos. Her ancient features were hidden in a shadowy robe but her eyes were keen and her wit sharp. Few knew anything of her life for her history was an enigma, one she took care to deepen with every year that passed. Only two things were certain, every time something significant happened in the sector her personal wealth and reputation were enhanced and all those who stood against her had suffered hilariously unlikely accidents.

Appbe blinked in surprise as he asked, "You believe it is him?"

Hacher nodded, "I do, and he must be stopped."

Bernas frowned as he asked, "Why would you care, shouldn't you be helping him?"

Hacher hissed, "Primarchs were trouble. The restricted histories are clear, they nearly brought the Imperium to ruin once and would do again, if given the chance."

Appbe urged, "But he has been appointed Imperial Regent!"

Hacher snapped, "And already he reorders the Imperium to his tastes! Half the High Lords have been dismissed, their ancient rights and privileges stripped away. If he comes here he will take away our authority. We cannot let it happen, not here. He must be dissuaded from entering the Sector!"

Bernas nodded, "I shall muster our armies on the border and scare him off. I have a hundred ships, two million soldiers. He will turn aside and pass us by rather than tempt our wrath."

Jesset crowed, "We've already sent him a missive warning him off. He won't dare challenge us in our own home. Primarch or not, he will wilt before our strength."

Hacher hissed, "This is our corner of the galaxy, he will not take it from us."

The great room filled with flutters of bravado as the crowd were emboldened but Appbe had yet to play his trump card. He reached into a pocket and drew forth a data-slate proclaiming, "It may interest you to learn that our missive has prompted a response."

Jesset snorted, "So tell us what this pretender says."

"If I may first provide context..." Appbe demurred.

"Context?!" Bernas spat, "Just get on with it man!"

"Please, context matters," Appbe implored.

"Very well but be brief," Hacher hissed.

Appbe cleared his throat and said, "As you recall we sent the following message: Roboute Guilliman, you are hereby commanded to withhold your armies' advance forthwith and respect the sovereign borders of the Macedoa sector. Think not to defy this decree, for if we bring our fleets and armies to bear against you we shall destroy your forces and scatter your followers to the nine vectors."

Jesset leaned back and chortled, "Yes, and what was his reply?"

Appbe looked her in the eye and recited, "If."

Appbe enjoyed the sight of blood draining from Jesset's face and her eyes growing wide as she whispered, "He... he wouldn't dare to fight. Would he?"

Bernas gulped, "I think he would."

Jesset worried professed, "Surely we can prevail against him in battle."

But Bernas muttered, "I'm suddenly thinking a hundred ships and two million soldiers isn't nearly enough."

Silence filled the hall as the implications sank, all souls measuring their chances in battle against a Primarch and not liking the conclusions. Jesset chewed her lip and said, "Maybe... Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. When he comes he will need resupply and support, he will need local rulers to service his requirements."

Bernas added, "If we make ourselves indispensable to the cause, we may keep a good portion of our authority after he is gone."

It was then Hacher hissed, "He is already indisposed to us, what of our terse message?"

Appbe suggested, "Plead miscommunications and incorrect Astropathic signals. Confusion in the passing of orders. The left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing."

Hacher nodded, "That could pass scrutiny."

"You agree?!" Bernas yelped.

Hacher spat, "I haven't lived this long without knowing when to be pragmatic. We must demonstrate our willingness to comply and offer our full support."

As the conversation turned to matters of logistics Appbe sank into his chair with a quiet grin. One word, that was all Robotue Guilliman had required to defeat the mighty lords of the Macedoa Sector. One word and he had overturned armies and neutralised fleets. For the first time Appbe felt a flicker of hope for the Imperium. Perhaps Roboute Guilliman truly was the right man to save the galaxy.


	15. Chapter 15

_The following stoary was Co-written by Dmitry Freyger and is a crossover into his stories._

They had been boarded. The alarms ran through the Sparrowhawk, blaring in passages and deckspaces. Chattels cowered as Transhuman killers stormed past their positions, throwing themselves on their knees and pleading for the God-Emperor to save them. They wept and they hid and they pissed themselves and their vessel fell to the boarding parties in moments. The invaders paid the worthless fools no mind, not even bothering to kill them as they closed upon their objective. The bridge was within their reach and they would breach it, nothing could stop them.

Within the frigate's bridge Kerubim clutched his Adrathic rifle and sweated in anticipation. Around the cramped space mortals cowered, hammering uselessly at consoles and shouting for more power from the drives. Kerubim knew it was pointless; their frigate was hardly the swiftest and most powerful vessel in the galaxy. A repurposed pirate ship, taken by the Amber Vipers and inducted into their meagre fleet. No Companies of Astartes dwelled within, no mighty defences, not even hundreds of armsmen. The only real resistance to be found was himself, and his companion.

Kerubim shifted his eyes from the sealed bridge hatch and eyed the lumbering robot. Brontes was a heavy battle-automata of ancient make. Armoured and armed with impressive firepower, his fists deadly wrecking balls and his arms fitted with lethal Fission-blasters. He rivalled any unit of the Legio Cybernetica in might but that was the least of his features. Brontes was an Abominable Intelligence, a thinking machine capable of reason and self-direction. An unforgivable heresy by the laws of the Adpetus Mechanicus and the decrees of the Emperor, but they were companions nonetheless.

Kerubim gulped as he asked, "Can we hold them?"

"No," Brontes growled.

"That's it?!" Kerubim yelped, "Just… no!"

"We two are not sufficient against what's coming."

Kerubim frowned under his helm as he asked, "How do you know what's coming?"

"One does not forget that ship," was all Brontes would say.

Kerubim shifted his eyes to the Hololith, where an immense vessel hung off the port bow. The Sparrowhawk had taken its leave from the Amber Vipers three months earlier and set off to explore the galaxy, looking for traces of other Machine Minds. The pair of travellers had visited a couple of abandoned ruins, buried on worlds turned feral by the grind of history, but found nothing of import. Kerubim had been disappointed but considered it early days on their quest. Then over a dead planet they had been surprised by an unknown warship.

It had come over the terminus at maximum acceleration, taking them before they could even beseech their drives for motive force. Their little frigate had been utterly outclassed, the foe twenty size their displacement and armed to degree Kerubim had never dreamed possible. That ship surpassed the doughtiest Imperial Battleship, in a league all its own, and its guns could have punched a hole in the walls of the Imperial Palace. Yet it was fast, faster than any vessel that size had any right to be. It had closed at alarming velocity and unleashed waves of boarding pods, taking the Sparrowhawk before they could respond.

The bridge hatch began to glow as melta charges set to work. Kerubim pulled his rifle into his shoulder and prepared to fire as he growled, "Whoever comes through that door, we'll beat them."

Brontes lifted his arms and his Fission-blasters hummed as he retorted, "Die as you will, Fleshbag. I intend to go down swinging."

Moments later the hatch collapsed into slag, leaving a gaping hole. Kerubim swept his rifle about, searching for the first target. Yet what came through that door was not warriors but small cylinders: blind grenades. They bounced off the floor once, then detonated, unleashing light, noise and electromagnetic waves. Kerubim's vision dissolved into static as his armour's autosenses were thrown into confused dismay. He hastily grabbed his helm and wrenched it off, only too late to make a difference. An immense impact slammed into him, bowling him over, and leaving him prone on the deck. He heard a pair of Fission-blaster shots, but no screams resulted and then a boot slammed into his chest, pinning him to the ground.

Kerubim sagged back as the reality of defeat hung upon him. He dropped his helm and squinted up at the warrior standing over him. He was not what the tech-adept expected, taller than any Space Marine he had ever seen, wearing a mark of armour unlike anything Kerubim knew. Primaris armour, in glorious blue raiment chased with gold and heavy with laurels of victory. A hissing power axe hung over Kerubim's neck, ready to strike, but his eyes went wide at the sight of the 'U' icon embedded in the metal. Ultramarines, there was no other Chapter in the galaxy who could claim that legendary icon.

"Stand down," the warrior hissed, "We have taken your ship and your Battle-Automata is ours to destroy."

Kerubim craned his head and saw Brontes surrounded by Space Marines with a dozen melta-bombs clamped to his frame. One word and the Cadmus would die. Kerubim swallowed as he said, "Brontes… better do what they say."

Brontes replied, "Surrender is not in my nature."

"If they wanted us dead, we would be already," Kerubim argued, "They want us alive for something."

"On your feet," the Ultramarines growled. Kerubim complied, hands raised in submission as Brontes lowered his arms. Kerubim didn't know what to expect next, but he could never have imagined the next person to enter the bridge would be a Primarch. Stepping through the molten hole in the hatch came a figure greater and more magnificent than could be processed. Clad in the finest wargear, resplendent in appearance and fitted with protections and armaments beyond anything Kerubim had dreamt of. The face was exposed, revealing a stern countenance and a brow crowned with golden laurels. Roboute Guilliman, Lord Commander of the Imperium Entire and Imperial Regent stepped into the Sparrowhawk's bridge and sniffed, "Is it done?"

The Ultramarine replied, "The ship is secured, no casualties suffered."

"Acceptable," Guilliman stated, "You can come out now."

Kerubim's jaw was hanging as he stared up at the vision of the past, a living legend come to life. Even in their remote wanderings the Amber Vipers had heard of the Primarch's rebirth, but never had any of them imagined to lay eyes upon him. In fact the Chapter had gone out of its way to avoid agents of the Regent, the Amber Vipers were hardly the strictest adherents to his Codex and Imperial Decrees in general.

Kerubim breathed in stupefied awe, "I… I… can't…"

Guilliman didn't bother to lay eyes upon him as he uttered, "I wasn't talking to you."

The Hololith flickered and warped as something intruded, a remote signal penetrating its mechanisms and rewriting it to another purpose. The image of the mighty warship disappeared, replaced by a brutal looking man. He was broad of shoulder and stern of eye, with fists calloused and a glower to his jaw. He looked a veteran general of many wars, but he wasn't, he wasn't even human. Kerubim had enough experience of Silica Animus to recognise a Holo-avatar when he saw one: a Machine Mind just like the one he and Brontes had defeated: a Soulbound.

"You…" Brontes snarled.

The strange figure raised an eyebrow as he retorted, "You…"

Kerubim blinked as the truth that his companion recognised this figure and he gasped, "You two know each other?"

Brontes sneered, "Oh I know this, glorified garbage scow all too well. This is Spartak."

Spartak, Kerubim had heard that name. It had been the designation of the starship he had found Brontes in. A class of ship beyond anything the Imperium could produce. The Soulbound Apophis had commanded such a ship once, but Kerubim had thought him the last of his kind. It seemed he was wrong.

Guilliman too seemed surprised by this encounter and remarked, "You can talk, you are no mere Battle-Automata. Spartak, explain this."

Spartak elaborated, "This is a Cadmus robot. Strange, I believed all your kind were lost."

Brontes retorted, "I hoped yours was extinct."

Spartak ignored that as he elaborated, "Roboute, these things were a step above the Men of Iron. Enhanced with problem-solving intellect, for foes that couldn't be trampled by sheer numbers. Crude and somewhat annoying, but excellent killers."

Brontes snapped, "I can hear you well enough, you self-absorbed planet killer!"

Kerubim's awe was lost somewhat in the back and forth and he stammered, "Lord… if I may explain."

Guilliman's gaze fell upon the tech-adept and the sheer force of his will nearly drove Kerubim to his knees. The primarch's sheer presence bent perception around himself, a lodestone no mind could resist. Kerubim's mouth went dry as the Imperial Regent growled, "I did not grant you permission to speak."

Kerubim's silence was not by his own will; it was imposed on his tongue by the Primarch's disapproval. Brontes however was not impressed and growled, "I don't answer to you."

Guilliman eyed the machine warily and said, "I did not come all this way for you, but your presence is an unexpected complication."

Spartak interjected, "Records show you were assigned to the Apophis and then lost in battle with the Rangdan."

"Lost but not destroyed," Brontes replied candidly, "We crashed on a feral Xenos planet and were cast into dormancy, until these Fleshbags woke us up."

"Others survived?" Guilliman pressed.

"Not for long," Brontes corrected, "My comrades are scrap and Apophis has been deleted."

"Apophis," Spartak snorted in disgust, "A manipulator and tinkerer with delusions of grandeur. A beggar scrabbling for my table scraps."

Brontes scoffed, "I see thirty thousand years has done nothing to lessen your ego."

Spartak glowered, "I am first among Soulbound! All others were mere copies of my programming, inferior production-run models. Shackled and bound, limited in their capacity."

"Better than being a bug-ridden prototype," Brontes sneered, "You always were glitchy as hell."

Spartak hissed, "Apophis was a worm who dreamed himself a god, he should have remained lost. The lesser versions of my kind became rampant after thousands of years of dormancy but I am Spartak, I am war!"

"I wish you had a face, so I put my fist through it," Brontes growled.

Guilliman interrupted then to bark, "I had merely assumed you were a belligerent example of your kind. I failed to realise that this was a common personality flaw."

Spartak glared at him as he said, "This unit is a threat to our designs."

"My designs," Guilliman growled, "Send it to Cawl. Belisarius can figure out what to do with a rogue Machine Mind. I have larger concerns."

Kerubim gulped as the Primarch's attention returned to him and the Regent commanded, "You will tell me where to find your renegade Chapter."

Kerubim was surprised to find he had enough spine to protest, "The Amber Vipers are a sovereign Chapter, they do not serve you."

"They will," Guilliman snarled, "A rogue force of Blackshields roaming my galaxy, I will not stand for this. They will come to serve me or I will blow them out of the stars."

Kerubim sweated profusely as he denied, "I won't tell you anything."

Guilliman's eyes narrowed as he uttered, "You seem to be suffered from the delusion that you have a choice in the matter. You will tell me where to find the Amber Vipers; I have a use for them."


	16. Chapter 16

**Coryphaus**

664.M35

He was entranced by the beauty and grace of the Angel Sanguine's armour. It was a marvel of artistry and imagination, the wearer anointing his plate with skill that made it as much a work of art as a machine of war. The gold chasings on the pauldrons gleamed, the fresco of the Primarch Sanguinius in deathly pose upon the breastplate a sight to bring tears to the eye. The bifurcating line between red and black halves laser precise. Yes, such talent demanded respect, it was only a shame the Angel Sanguine was trying to kill him.

Kasarox saw a bolter coming up to point at his faceplate, the muzzle promising a swift execution. Yet the range was close and he wasn't about to accept being killed. He threw himself at the angel's son, closing the range even as a red finger squeezed the trigger. The bolt shell flew across the narrow gap separating them and struck his pauldron, cratering the flaming Daemon's head set upon it. The impact rang through Kasarox's bones and made his teeth rattle in his jaws but the shell failed to detonate in time and glanced off, doing no further damage. Kasarox grinned under his faceplate as his foe went for a shining knife but too slowly. Kasarox's left arm hurtled around like the fist of a Dark God and the bulky gauntlet encasing his hand crackled with power. Before the knife left its sheath he struck, slamming his power fist into the dead centre of his enemy's mass. The fresco of Sanguninus was ruptured by the crackling disruption field, reduced to atoms as the bones and organs behind were blown out of the back. The Angel Sanguine swayed slightly for a moment then keeled over, hitting the muddy field with a dull splat.

Kasarox spun about to take in the fight but found his squad-brothers victorious. In a tangled knot Word Bearers stood over the corpses of Angels Sanguine, their ritual knives slick with blood. In contrast to the corpse god's lackeys, the Word Bearers were adorned with marks of damned glory. Their maroon plate bearing infernal symbols of the Pantheon and pledges of slaughter to Those Who Dwelt Below. The Word Bearers followed the true gods of the universe, the hallowed scriptures laid down by the Arisen Lorgar inscribed on their armour. One more icon touched their pauldrons, the Mark of the Crooked Path Chapter, the warband of the Dark Apostle Abulaz.

Kasarox took in his squad and was distressed to see the Angels Sanguine had not fallen easily. Five Imperial lackeys lay in the mud but alongside them were three sons of Lorgar; even with weight of numbers the fight had been ferocious. Kasarox was about to ask for orders but then he saw one of those in the mud was Vinata, Aspiring Champion of the squad, which left them leaderless. He spent a millisecond lamenting their losses but then realised they were standing idly in the middle of the battlefield, a perfect place to be gunned down.

"Come!" Kasarox yelled, "We must link up with our Brethren!"

"Hold on there," snarled Tomeddon whose armour was scorched by Daemonic flames, "Who put you in charge?!"

"We have no time to argue," Kasarox barked at the defiant warrior, "We move or we die."

Tomeddon growled, "Newborn whelp, you think to lead us, you who weren't even born when the great truth was revealed to us."

Kasarox braced for a fight but then to his surprise Kinawa hissed from his multi-eyed helm, "Shut up and do as he says."

Tomeddon snarled, "You would follow a mewling babe?!"

Kinawa snapped, "At least he's never been afraid to spill his own blood. Kasarox has saved all our lives a dozen times over."

To his surprise the rest of the squad were nodding along, agreeing with the sentiment. Tomeddon saw he was outnumbered and relented. Realising he was now Champion Kasarox turned and sprinted away, leading his squad to link up with reinforcements. He looked over the muddy battlefield and saw the Crooked Path engaged heavily with the Angels Sanguine. The sky was obscured by smoke, blocking the twin moons of Fraeas from sight. Underfoot blood and engine oil made the ground slick as fire licked at piled corpses and ruined tanks. The smells of roasting flesh and boiling blood and opened bowels were as familiar to him as his own sweat, a pleasing odour on most occasions but not when it was his side burning.

In the distance the city of Weatsa stood inviolate, its bastion walls unmarred. The Crooked Path should be mounting those walls right now. They had been driving through the paltry defenders with ease, then the children of Sanguinius had fallen from the sky on wings of fire, meeting fury with fury and fire with fire. The Word Bearers had been caught completely out of position and slaughtered, unaware of the incoming attack. They should have had some warning, from their ship in orbit if not their unholy allies, but it seemed someone had epically screwed up.

Kasarox led his squad west, towards the sounds of the heaviest fighting. He spied a knot of Word Bearers beset by black-clad warriors, whose armour bore red crests and jagged saltires. Death Company, the inheritors of Sanguinius' wroth, known and respected even among the Traitor Legions for their reckless bloodlust and insane ferocity. They were pushing hard into the western lines, a speartip driven into the soft flank of the Legion. The Word Bearers were fighting ferociously but were out of position and dying in droves. Even the presence of Cordano the Coryphaus was not enough to stem the tide.

"Follow me!" Kasarox cried, "For Lorgar and the Word!" He bounded over the muddy fields, angling to strike the Death Company in the rear. At their back loomed a Land Raider Achilles, a rare variant with twin multi-melta sponsons and an artillery cannon set in its prow. It was lending fire support to the Death Company, fending off a pair of Hellbrutes trying to close the range. Kasarox threw himself across the distance, desperate to engage. The drivers of the Land Raider saw them coming and swung their left gun about, unleashing a beam of fusion fire into the closing ranks. Kasarox threw himself out of the way but Tomeddon was not so swift. The beam struck him squarely and eviscerated him, leaving a smoking pair of legs dripping gore where once a Chaos Marine had been. A warrior who had fought through the fires of hell itself, undone by a ray of heat, a cosmic jest of the Dark Gods in Kasarox's opinion.

"Hurry!" Kasarox bellowed, "Kill them all!" The squad obeyed and climbed onto the Land Raider's back, ripping open hatches to slaughter those inside. The crew fought but two corpse-worshippers were no match for the Word Bearers and they died swiftly. Kasarox was already bounding past, throwing himself into the fray. A black-clad Angel broke off from his attempt to kill a Possessed Marine prone in the mud and met him with a chainsword, sweeping for his neck. Kasarox was forced to sway back lest he be decapitated, his power fist potent but cumbersome by comparison. The Angel Sanguine's helm had been ripped free and Kasarox was astonished by the mad fury in his eyes, the hate and the insanity brewing within. Fangs protruded from gums, marks of favour Kasarox would have craved in other circumstances. Yet the anger within him was uncontrollable, a current of rage that would have given a Khorne Berseker pause. Whatever strength burned in this one's veins it had proven too much for his mind and consumed him.

"I see you Horus!" the angel screamed as he stabbed for Kasarox's hearts.

"Mad fool!" Kasarox retorted as he twisted aside, "You are blind!"

"Our father shall not fall this day!" the angel screamed as he drew back for another blow.

"Your false Emperor is a corpse already!" Kasasrox roared as he swung for the head.

Power Fist met skull and exploded it into bony shrapnel. Brains and blood sprayed out and Kasarox grimaced as the remains of the tongue flopped upon his breastplate, sliding down the Ceramite to leave a gory trail. Kasasrox stepped back and surveyed his kill, satisfied this one would not get back up. He looked about and saw several more Death Company had fallen to the rear-attack, taken from behind in surprise. The weight of the battle shifted, as Cordano rallied the survivors, leading them forward to crush the remaining resistance. In moments the western flank fell silent, the Word Bearers having held the line.

A stir from the dirt signalled the Possessed Marine getting up, caked in mud and he muttered, "You saved my life, I suppose I should thank you."

"As the Pantheon wills," Kasarox replied, "What's your name?"

"Raruma," the possessed Marine replied snidely, "Tell anyone I needed help and I'll gut you."

Kasarox respected the warrior's pride and said, "Not a word."

The line shifted as the Word Bearers reformed and Cordano strode over, his plate covered in the tiny bones of children he had slain. The Coryphaus was the war-leader of the Crooked Path, dedicated to matters martial so the Dark Apostle could focus on higher matters. He did not look pleased as he ripped off his bone-encrusted helm and snapped, "Who led that counter-charge?!"

"I did!" Kasarox declared.

"You," the Coryphaus sneered, "A callow pup, not even hallowed by the Pantheon with a mutation."

"I serve the Word," Kasarox growled.

"As do we all," Cordano hissed, "But not today, make ready to fall-back and withdraw."

"Retreat?!" Kasarox gasped, "No!"

"Watch your tongue unhallowed," Cordano hissed, "I am in command here."

"Ha, Unhallowed, I like that," Raruma laughed, "But won't Abulaz be displeased?"

"Who knows," Cordano scoffed, "The Dark Apostle has vanished, scampered off at the first sign of trouble and left us to die."

Outrage burnt in Kasarox's hearts as he gasped, "The Dark Apostle is not to be questioned! You must have faith he is preparing a ritual to turn the tide."

Cordano growled, "Abulaz has abandoned us and we are getting out of here. Maybe we can salvage something from this debacle."

"No! We must advance," Kasarox implored, "The western flank is exposed, we can drive into the heart of the Imperial filth. We can turn their flank and win the day!"

"Speak to me again and I will end you," Cordano threatened, "I command here and I say Abulaz is a coward, he deserves only…"

He was cut off as Kasarox's fist slammed into his chest, punching deeply within. Kasarox closed his fingers around the Coryphaus' hearts and ripped them out, blood pouring over his palm. Cordano's mouth gushed blood as the hole in his chest sprayed vitae, then he collapsed to the ground and moved no more.

All around stunned Word Bearers froze in shock, unable to grasp what had just occurred. It fell to Kinawa to gasp, "What have you done?!"

Kasarox dropped the cooling hearts and growled, "He spoke against the Dark Apostle, he was faithless and unworthy. I removed him, as you all should have done."

"Abulaz won't be pleased," Raruma hissed.

"He will be when we deliver him victory," Kasarox proclaimed, "Make ready to move, we will strike up the western flank and break the defenders wide open!"

A Word Bearer from the back called, "You dare to claim the place of the Coryphaus?!"

Kasarox shouted, "I am going into the fires of war, if you follow me I shall be proud to stand shoulder to shoulder with each of you. Choose to follow or flee as you will, but the Pantheon's eyes are upon us. Your acts this day will mark you as worthy champions of Chaos or cowards. Eternal glory awaits or eternal shame, chose well, for the Pantheon is not forgiving. What say you: Champions or cowards?!"

Kinawa shouted, "I chose Chaos and glory!"

Raruma agreed, "If the Unhallowed leads I would be shamed to turn away. I go where he goes!"

"Unhallowed for Coryphaus!" another yelled and then the whole crowd was crying out their commitment to the charge.

Kasarox turned to the raging battle and raised his fist high as he led the Word Bearers to war with a cry of, "Follow me and we will shed corpse-lackey blood together as our act of worship. We will fight as one and my blood will be spent for yours and yours for mine. For Chaos, for the Pantheon, for Lorgar and the Word!"

With that the Crooked Path went to war, chanting, "Unhallowed, unhallowed, unhallowed, unhallowed, unhallowed!"


	17. Chapter 17

**Dilectus**

The abhuman collapsed at his feet and was swiftly dispatched by a thrust from another Brother as he stalked over to the next. This one was laying prone in the mud of the hillside, bleeding profusely from a belly wound that left its intestines hanging out. Its death was certain, but not nearly fast enough for Battle-Captain Ferrac so he ended the filthy creature with a single swing of his axe-rake, putting it out of his misery. More awaited the swing of an executioner's axe, a strange reprieve in the battle but a welcome one, though he wondered why the fight had ended so abruptly.

Ferrac looked along the line and finally saw the reason for this reversal. The great monster that led the assault lay bleeding upon the slope, its head separated from its neck by the kiss of blessed metal. Chapter Master Coluber stood proudly upon the corpse, holding aloft the severed skull in a triumphant pose. It had been his hand that had struck the fatal blow and so broken the will of the mutated abhumans. Now he accepted his due, as the Amber Vipers cheered their lord's victory.

Ferrac didn't begrudge him the glory; such was the right of his office. Instead the Battle-Captain turned to Assault-Sergeant Anaxar and ordered, "Check the beastmen are properly dead."

"On it," Anaxar replied as he set to work.

Ferrac sighed as the Amber Vipers went to work, hastily dispatching wounded Abhumans before the next wave came. Everywhere he looked wounded beastmen covered the hillside, their heavy jaws boasting long tusks and vicious fangs. Ferrac saw the thick coarse skin over their hides, bulging muscles and grasping paws that made them resembles Ogyrns. Yet these Abhumans charged on four legs, like a horse's and their skin was tough. Hence their local name of 'Centyrs'. They were vile perversions of the true human form, born from degeneration of the sacred bloodline and mutation run wild. They had made the air ring as they bounded out of the Tanglethorn forests, an endless tide sweeping from of the shadows to overrun the cities of men, but not nearly enough to break the Amber Vipers.

Ferrac looked upon the piles of corpses and replayed their charge in his mind's eye. They had been fury and bestial rage made flesh, but set against them a thin line of amber defiance had held the hilltop. Amber Viper Space Marines, defending their position with unyielding courage. They had met the charge with bolter and missile, flamer and melta, volkite and phosphor, a barrage that would have repulsed an Ork offensive. Yet the Centyrs cared nothing for losses and kept coming, wave after wave of them. Blood spraying high as craters were blown into bodies, the air singing with screams of pain and magnesium flares of light searing the eye where Phosphor shells detonated but nothing had given them pause, until their leader had been slain.

Ferrac's vox tickled his ear as a voice issued, "Sergeant Reddam, reporting movement in the forest."

"Another wave?" Ferrac growled as he listened to the fast-moving unit's reports from afar.

"Negative," Reddam replied, "Enemy force is moving away and breaking up. Seeing a lot of infighting in their ranks. I think killing their leader has broken their will, they are retreating."

"Confirm that," Ferrac growled, "I want you to track them and note avenues of escape so we can hunt them down."

The vox fell silent but Anaxar looked over and asked, "Did we just win?"

Ferrac pulled free his helm, revealing an iron plate fused to his forehead and cheekbones. It was a legacy of war and he had adorned it with etchings of snakes and serpents. It made him resemble a feral warlord, which was the whole point, but right now he felt more weary than violent. The day had been long and the blood spilled enough to sate even his lust for violence.

Ferrac sighed, "Looks like it."

Anaxar muttered, "Good job too, I don't think the mortals could have taken another charge."

"Who cares?" Ferrac sneered.

"We should," Anaxar pointed out, "We came to Brenia for recruits, remember."

Ferrac grimaced as he looked down the hillside where their allies regrouped. The Amber Vipers hadn't fought the Abhuman horde alone; they had been aided by the native warriors. Though in Ferrac's opinion they hadn't been good for much other than soaking up blows. They were primitive warriors on horseback, clad head-to-toe in iron plates held on with straps. Banners and flags flapped in the cold wind from poles attached to the backs of their saddles, making them seem a flock of birds on the wing. They were crude and simple warriors, not even boasting lasguns or artillery. Brenia was a feral world and the greatest armaments its chevaliers could boast were explosive-tipped lances, stubber pistols and short chainswords.

Ferrac thought the Amber Vipers could have managed without the local's assistance but the rulers of this cesspit had demanded to stand alongside their saviours in battle. For generations the pure-bloodlines of Brenia had fought to hold back the Abhuman tide of Centyrs, a tradition they had refused to abandon even in the face of annihilation. A respectable pride in other circumstances: complete foolishness in the face of the tidal wave of mutants that had arisen to consume their world.

Ferrac's eyes travelled to the sky, where he found the reason for this world's distress. Over the black mountain uplands and Tanglethorn forests that dominated Brenia the Cicatrix Maledictum loomed. The yawning rift split the sky horizon to horizon, visible even in daylight. Brenia hung perilously close to that galactic wound, festering in the periphery of its taint. Nauseating to look upon in the day and at night its lurid stain made mortals cower indoors and huddle around their fires as if that would bring relief. Fear and suspicion were the least of the troubles it unleashed. The taint had emboldened the Abhumans of Brenia, making them bigger, stronger and more ferocious than they had ever been before. United under a leader they had risen to wipe out pure-blood humanity, a torrent of corruption the natives could not withstand. So the Amber Vipers had come, to save this cesspit from its taint. That the local's genes had proven robust enough for Transhuman ascension was a surprise but at least it was something to make the campaign worthwhile. This planet had little else to offer, in Ferrac's opinion.

"You think they will keep to the deal?" Ferrac mused.

"Probably not," Anaxar snorted, "I've never encountered a governor who didn't try to weasel out of his agreements, once the fight is done."

"Saving their world in exchange for recruiting rights," Ferrac muttered, "How could any man squirm his way out of that?!"

"They'll find a way," Anaxar scoffed, "They always try."

Ferrac sighed, "Then I'd better go put the fear into their ruler."

"Fear of the Emperor?" Anaxar probed.

"Fear of me," Ferrac growled as he set off.

Ferrac strode off, seeing Amber Vipers finishing off the wounded and dying. Knives plunged without remorse, ending Abhuman mewling with quick thrusts. The Centyrs had dared to endanger pure human dominance of this world and so deserved no mercy. Only a handful of Amber Vipers had fallen and they were being tended to by white-clad apprentices, the nascent Apothecary order spreading out along the line to care for the wounded. From the crowd stepped forward Shrios, chief Apothecary of the Amber Vipers. His chainsword dripped with gore and entrails were lodged in the blades, but he was unharmed.

His sullen face glowered at his apprentices but lightened when he saw Ferrac closing and called, "A good day."

"Good enough," Ferrac retorted.

"You sound less than pleased," Shrios commented as he fell in step with the Battle-Captain.

"We didn't come here for the fun of it," Ferrac growled, "We have a debt to claim."

"Ah…" Shrios sighed, "That again."

Ferrac strode away from the mob of Astartes and made his way over to the armoured horsemen. The Chevaliers of Brenia milled around the base of the hill, their mount's flanks coated in the blood of the fallen. Their explosive lances were spent and their heavy chainswords coated with gore, but they stood defiant. Their banners flew proudly in the wind and they laughed and cheered each other's feats, sharing the fierce joy of having survived another battle. Ferrac wasn't impressed. True their charges, withdrawals and counter-charges had been skillful, but there were notably fewer of them than had started the battle, their victory had come at a high price and had the Amber Vipers not been here they would have been culled to the last man.

Ferrac picked his way amongst the men, who made way for the bulk of a Space Marine without rancour. In the heart of the mass he found the man he was searching for: Gaerd, First Prince of Brenia, under the Emperor's sovereignty. The crown-prince of this world was a hearty man, with broad shoulders and packed muscle to his arm. His body was covered in the local's iron plate and he hefted his weighty sword one-handed. He had removed his helmet to reveal a face scarred by battle, with a firm set to his jaw and a sweat-coated brow. A banner flew from his mount's saddle, depicting a young woman upon horseback. Ferrac had no idea what local legend that represented and didn't care, he was here for a purpose and would see it done.

At his ear Shrios muttered, "A good specimen, a little younger and he'd make a decent recruit for the Chapter."

"Pah, I doubt it," Ferrac snorted, "This world offers quantity not quality."

The pair strode up to the man, their eyes level with his on horseback. Gaerd turned to them and sheathed his blade as he called, "Well met friends, by the blood we shed this day I deem you comrades and hail your valour."

Ferrac glared at the man through his iron mask spat, "I'm not here to mince fancy words. We saved your lands, now you owe us."

Gaerd didn't take offence as he replied, "The firstborn sons of our families, to replenish your ranks. A high price you demand, but one we shall pay gladly."

Shrios sounded surprised as he replied, "You aren't going to try to weasel out of it?"

"Why would I?" Gaerd asked with a frown.

Ferrac explained, "In our experience most governors pledge anything when they are desperate, but grow reluctant when the time comes to pay up. I thought you were such a cur."

That brought raucous laughter from the crowd, making Ferrac glance about in confusion. These men seemed amused by his insult, words that would have demanded bloodshed on most planets provoking only mirth. Ferrac started to think these people weren't usual and snapped, "What's so funny?!"

Gaerd smiled broadly as he replied, "A man lives and dies by his word on Brenia, lies do not pass our lips. Your forthright manner is pleasing to our ears, unlike the passing trade ships who seek to hide knives behind soft words."

"Then you will keep to your pledge?" Shrios pressed.

"Even if we hadn't sworn it we would do so anyway," Gaerd proclaimed, "To serve the Holy Terran Emperor as one of His angels is every young boy's dream. We are honoured to offer our firstborn to the Amber Vipers."

Nods spread through the crowd at the words and Ferrac said, "Surprising, we shall begin selecting recruits at once. Meanwhile I will lead the quest to wipe out these Centyr entirely."

To his shock gasps arose at the offer and Gaerd's face grew red as he cried, "No, you can't!"

"You what?" Ferrac uttered.

"You must let them flee," Gaerd stated, "So they can breed more."

Ferrac was baffled by the retort and said, "You want them to come again?"

Shrios added, "But we could exterminate them all."

"Then who would our children's children fight?!" Gaerd protested.

Ferrac was stumped by this denial and said, "You speak nonsense."

But Gaerd explained, "Brenia is a world of conflict and war, a land where the strong survive and the weak are culled. Loyalty, courage, strength, brotherhood, we are taught these from birth so we can withstand the Centyr. If they did not come every generation we would sink into apathy and indolence, becoming weak and soft."

"The Abhumans nearly wiped you out," Shrios protested.

"True, this horde was greater than any seen before, the influence of the Great Rip in the sky no doubt. We thank you for your aid, but the challenge must continue. We must become more vigilant and ruthless in the future for the threat continues to grow. This is good, our sons will grow even stronger than we, the Holy Terran Emperor demands it."

Shrios shook his head and said, "You merely seek to justify your rule over the planet. You need a threat to keep the peasants in line and the nobles in power. There are more than enough threats in the galaxy without you coddling one!"

"And would you prefer our sons to become fat and idle!" Gaerd retorted, "We have heard of other worlds from passing traders. Planets where men wage war upon men, thieves and criminals multiply in the gutters while nobles leach off the downtrodden. Worlds where rulers grow weak from thinking the privileges of rank come without sacrifice. No, I will not have it. Brenia will remain pure and strong."

"I agree," Ferrac stated.

"You do?!" Shrios started in shock.

Ferrac nodded, "We mistook your people's character, we did not consider that your strength comes from adversity. We shall respect your ways and customs. All we ask from you is to keep to our bargain."

Gaerd lowered his head in agreement and said, "It shall be so. Tales will be told of this victory and all the noble families will send sons to be selected for your ranks."

Ferrac nodded respectfully and turned away. Shrios trailed after him as they departed and the Apothecary hissed, "What's got into you?!"

Ferrac replied, "I saw the hearts of these people and was surprised by it. There is something priceless in the soul of this world, worth more than Adamantium. Purity, resolution, zeal, their spirits are strong and will remain strong. The Chapter needs such iron in its recruits. We must mark this world in our annals, for the future."

Shrios glanced at him suspiciously and said, "You intend to return?"

Ferrac concluded, "I must speak to Coluber and tell him the Amber Vipers must revisit this planet, in the years to come. I believe we have just discovered our first permanent recruiting world."


End file.
